


wonder violet

by belby



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Fluff and Angst, Homophobic Language, Injury, M/M, Minor Character Death, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, alternative universe - pennywise doesnt exist, au - eddies a new kid, au - richie has a sister, eddie n richie are gay and bi dumbasses, its just...all an au, richie is two years older than eddie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-02-23 01:02:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 74,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13179045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belby/pseuds/belby
Summary: "Right." Eddie's not sure what to think. "Well, thanks, for sticking up for me." Eddie's also not sure if he means that, but it feels like something he should say."Yeah, 'course," Richie replies. "You're my sister's best friend."





	1. before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in a bad italian accent: itsa mess

Eddie Kaspbrak has never had a best friend.

When he was six, he had had a next door neighbour who was also six, and their mothers would put them in Eddie's room to play. Eddie very much liked his neighbour who was also six. She told him he was boring and tried to leave his room by climbing out the window.

When he was ten, and spending a lazy Saturday at the park, a group of boys had called him over and asked him to be their goalie for a game of soccer. Eddie had agreed excitedly, because he had been alone and swinging sullenly on the swings. But the boys had yelled at him for not diving for the ball, and had scoffed when he told them he couldn't, because he was allergic to the grass.

When he was twelve, the boys at school started talking about girls, and the girls at school giggled and pretended they couldn't hear the boys. And Eddie didn't fit into either of these groups, because he wasn't interested in talking about girls, and it's not like any of the boys would ever talk about him.

When he was fourteen, everyone started smoking, and drinking, and snorting anything they could get their hands on. Eddie sat with a group of other misfits at lunch, and none of them spoke, or, at least, none of them spoke to _him_ , so he would listen to the other groups of kids talk about who threw up and who fell over and who made out at the party last weekend. He knew that if he went to those parties, or accepted a cigarette, or kissed a girl, he would be able to sit with those groups and laugh and talk and have friends too. But he was taught by his mother not to do any of those things.

Now, Eddie Kaspbrak is sixteen, and he is moving to a new house in a new town. Which means he's going to a new highschool, where he'll become the new kid.

If he didn't have any friends before, he's definitely not going to have any friends _now._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 It's Eddie's second day at his new high school when he meets her.

He sits near the back of the classroom, by the window so the sun bathes his desk and warms his hands. Yesterday was all obtrusive gazes and meaningless introductions, where Eddie was the shiny new toy for the students to poke and prod at. Today, things have simmered down to the occasional glance and whispers behind palms. He still has to stand in front of the blackboard and tell the class his name and some 'fun and interesting facts about himself!' every time he enters a new room, though, so it's not like his second day is particularly better.

However, today, in his Ancient History class, he sits next to a girl who leans over to speak to him the moment the teacher turns around. This isn't odd or anything, because students have been doing this since the moment he sat down for his first class. _'Hi, I'm Stacy! What's your name?' 'Hey, dude, you're new, right?' 'Yo, did you move here from like, Australia or something? You're really tan.'_ The thing is, those introductions are usually fleeting, because the students take in his sports socks, hiked half way up his calves, his athletic shorts and fanny pack, as well as the way he awkwardly introduces himself back - stuttery and disjointed because of how out of practise he is at socialising - and they suddenly become uninterested.

This girl, on the other hand, doesn't follow this well formulated routine. She smiles at him and says, "Hey, I like your outfit."

And everything changes from there.

 

"It's sportsy," the girl comments. The class is quite loud and chattery, a bubble of noise and blurs of colours behind her, but still she keeps her voice low, as though trying not to be heard. "And, honestly, the fanny pack is super practical. I'm kind of really angry at myself for not thinking about wearing one before."

Here's something you should know about most boys: they're terrible at talking to girls. Here's something you should know about Eddie: he's very different from most boys, but he's still terrible at talking to girls.

That's mostly because he's terrible at talking to everyone, but, with this girl in particular, it seems to be a problem that is caused by a very similar reason to the average teenage male. The girl is beautiful.

Ethereal, is a word that comes to mind when Eddie looks at her. Regal. And Greek. But maybe that's because he's in a Ancient History class. She has nightly black hair, long and straight and pulled up into a high ponytail. Her skin is pale, almost concernedly so, but it's striking, the contrast between her skin and her hair, her dark lashes and stormy grey eyes. Her jaw is sharp and her nose is straight, high cheek bones and just a splattering of freckles. The kind of facial structure that most people would die for. She's _beautiful._

And she's babbling on about Eddie's fanny pack.

"Where did you get it from?" she asks, eyeing Eddie's waist below the desk. "Do they come in many colours? I like the blue you have, but it'd be weird to have the same, you know?"

"You really want one?" Eddie blurts. If someone comments on any aspect of Eddie's outfit, he usually assumes they're making fun of him. Especially if they're as impossibly attractive as this girl. (Not that he's met anyone that could fit that criteria).

She seems surprised by his question. "Of course. More people should, don't you think?"

"Well...yeah. They're really good for carrying things. Like snacks and money and medication or whatever. Better than bags. You hardly notice it when you're wearing it, and bags get in the way all the time. They can get heavy and hurt your back. Plus, I don't wanna carry a backpack around if I just need a couple little things, so..." he trails off, suddenly aware of what he's saying. Not only is it lame, but his sentences are choppy and his words are a little rushed. He can't remember the last time he had spoken for that _long._

"That's so true," the girl says. She nods like Eddie's words had genuinely interested her and were stimulating enough to make her think. "I hate carrying handbags around. They definitely get in the way." Then, she slams her hand on the desk. A couple kids glance her way, but her eyes narrow on Eddie. "That's it. We're starting the fanny pack movement. Me and you. We're gonna spread the word."

Eddie is both incredibly flustered, and bashfully pleased. "Okay." He smiles, it's shy but grown from the sudden warmth in his chest.

The girl smiles back. It's small but perfected, like she has studied the art of dazzling grins. "I'm Violet, by the way. Violet Tozier."

"Eddie Kaspbrak."

"Well, then, Eddie Kaspbrak." She holds out her hand. "From now on, we'll be business partners. Dedicated to making the world a better place."

At the front of the room, the teacher calls for silence. The bubble of chatter around them begins to deflate. Violet's gaze never wavers from Eddie's face. A dormant storm studying, searching, knowing, every twitch and flutter of his features.

Eddie takes her hand and shakes it.

 

Violet Tozier is Eddie Kaspbrak's first best friend.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Two weeks later_

 

"Honestly, you could sell those shirts, Violet. They're super cute."

"I've already told you. I'm not interested in making money off my clothing."

"Yeah, I know. But, like. You totally could."

Violet catches Eddie's gaze from across the table and rolls her eyes.

It's lunch time, and they're in the cafeteria, sitting in their usual spot. Violet sits sideways, with her feet up on the bench, and her back leant against her friend, Elizabeth's, side. Technically, Elizabeth is Eddie's friend, too. As is Macie, who is oblivious to the eye roll she managed to pull from Violet. And Abigail, who sits restlessly beside Eddie. But Eddie doesn't really care much for any of them. Macie had once called him "Violet's new toy to play with" amongst her usual senseless chatter, and Abigail speaks to him in a weird, condescending, sing-songy voice. Like a kindergarten teacher speaking to kids. Elizabeth is alright, but she doesn't really talk to Eddie at all.

Violet, though, is the coolest person Eddie has ever met. Moves through the world as though none of it touches her, she seems above it all. And she's so freaking smart. She could be anything she wanted to be, a doctor, a lawyer, the next President. But her interest lies with fashion, and all the clothes she wears she made herself, and half the clothes her friends wear she made herself. Eddie is certain that he's in love with her, if you could be in love with someone and not want to kiss them.

She says to Eddie, as they leave the cafeteria, "Hey, come over to my place after school this Friday. I wanna make you something."

"You don't have to," Eddie says.

"But I want to," Violet replies, nudging his arm. "Plus, we can just hang out. You can sleepover, too, if you want."

Eddie has never been asked to hang out before. And he most definitely has not been to a sleepover before. He feels flustered and excited and nervous. It hits him at random, startling moments that Violet Tozier truly enjoys and wants to spend time with him.

"Okay," he says.

"Awesome. My brother can pick us up on Friday." She leans toward Eddie conspiratorially and adds, "Don't tell the girls about this, though. I love them, but I haven't invited them over in ages. They'll be a little jealous."

Eddie just nods and waves her goodbye as they separate off to their different classes. Perhaps he should've questioned why, exactly, Violet doesn't invite her other friends over. But he's too excited about spending time with her to pay it much mind.

He lies to his mother about what he's doing on Friday. Because she'd turn red in the face, yell at him, pass out, and then yell at him some more if she found out he was planning to spend the night at a _girl's_ house. Often she'll tell him stories about women that lie and cheat on their boyfriends, she'll tell him tales of women that manipulate men into something they can domineer and control. _"Oh, you don't want a girlfriend, honey,"_ she had told Eddie when he was younger and had told her that he wasn't sure if he ever wanted one. _"They'll put you on a leash. You'll become a little lap dog. They'll take you away from your Ma."_ And he'd thought that had sounded terrible, because he loves his ma so much. She takes care of him, in a much better way than other parents take care of their children. She watches his diet very carefully, and gets him all the pills he needs, and keeps hand sanitizer all over the house so their hands are clean and they don't get ill. It keeps him safe.

Eddie's pretty sure that's all bullshit now.

Still, he makes up a fake male friend called Joe who is a very sweet and clean boy and his mother is so excited about the fact that he's made a friend that she actually says yes to letting him sleepover. And so, on Friday, Eddie waits with Violet outside of the school. A spare change of clothes tucked away in his school bag, and excitement rolling in his stomach.

"God." Violet checks her watch impatiently, tapping her foot. "He's always late. The asshole." She turns to Eddie, points a finger at him. "Don't ever have a brother."

Eddie snorts. "I'll try not to."

Violet's lips twitch, but she doesn't smile. Instead, she fixes Eddie with a very serious look. "And don't listen to _my_ brother. Seriously, everything he says is bullshit. I'm just warning you. It's best not to speak to him."

Eddie's reply is lost under the sound of a loud, rumbling engine. The type of rumbling that sounds more like spluttering, and the type of engine that is probably better suited to the description of a fifty year old smoker's lungs. Violet whips around immediately at the sound, her ponytail almost striking Eddie in the face, and marches up towards an old white Ford before it can even pull up to the curb.

It honks its horn at her. She steps back, bristling. Eddie fears for whoever is in that car.

"Tozier Taxi Service, how can help you today, ma'am?" comes a cheery voice as Violet wrenches open the passenger door.

"We've been waiting here for twenty minutes, you asshole," she snaps. Eddie slinks around her and comes to a halt with his hand hovering over the back door. He feels like he should get in, but also like he should let Violet murder her brother first.

"All complaints will need to be written down on a complaint form, Miss. And I do have a right to turn down your service if you continue to act in a hostile manner..."

"God, shut up, Richie." Violet looks over at Eddie and shakes her head with an angered sigh. "Hop in," she says to him. "I'll put the bags in the trunk. It takes a bit of effort and skill to get it open, because this thing's a piece of shit!" She says that last part over her shoulder, for her brother to hear.

"This is the car you ordered, lady!" Richie calls back. Violet rolls her eyes, holds her hand out for Eddie's back pack - which he hands over reluctantly - and then heads around to the back of the car. Eddie continues to hesitate by the side door. Violet had told him not even five minutes ago not to talk to her brother. And now he's supposed to get in the car alone with him.

He's just about to tell Violet he'll help her, when Richie says, "Hop in my good chap!" in a very enthusiastic, but terrible British accent, and Eddie figures it'd be rude to do anything other than open the door and slide onto the musty backseat.

The first thing he notices: the car reeks of cigarette smoke. The second thing he notices: Richie is twisted around in his seat, grinning at him.

The third thing he notices: Richie has the same bone structure as Violet: sharp jaw, high cheekbones, straight nose, the same dark hair, though it halos his face in messy curls, the same startling contrast between that and his pale skin. His eyes are a warm brown, magnified by coke bottle glasses, and his grin is loud, a picture of pearly white teeth and full red lips.

He's _beautiful._

Eddie is sure if that he saw Richie and Violet standing next to each other, he'd think that they were a pair of tall, intimidating, incredibly famous, model twins. Richie is two years older than Violet, though, and his goofy grin isn't very intimidating.

Still, Eddie feels a little insecure in this small, musty car, with Richie Tozier looking at him. He tugs his shorts a little further down his thighs, like maybe it'll make the fabric stretch over his knobbly knees.

"Gotta admit," Richie says, looking Eddie up and down, (Eddie crosses his arms and places his hands over his knobbly elbows). "I thought Vi said she was having a friend over. I wasn't expecting to meet her boyfriend."

"Oh, I'm not her boyfriend," Eddie says quickly, cheeks a little red. "She _is_ just having a friend over. Me. I'm the friend --- I'm her friend." At some point he uncrossed his arms and started pointing at his chest. "We're just friends."

Richie quirks a brow, grin morphing from wide and goofy to something a little thinner, a coy smirk.

"So you're telling me Violet _didn't_ jump at the first opportunity to snatch up a cute little thing such as yourself?" he asks. Shakes his head in disapproval. "Thought my sister was smarter than that."

Eddie opens his mouth to respond, but words fail him, and he lets his lips slowly press back together. Heat flares under his skin, and now he's sure his whole body is bright red, but it's anger that has caused it this time. _Cute. Little._ The words are condescending. Like, just because Eddie's short, and he has a rounder sort of face - rather than the kind of jaw that can kill a man - so he looks a little younger, people suddenly think they can talk about him like he's ten years old.

"Violet told me not to talk to you," is how Eddie finally responds, because he's not sure what else to say. It's a little counterproductive, because he sounds exactly like a grumpy child, arms folded and a little crease between his brows.

Richie's entire expression seems to lift, his eyes widen and he raises his eyebrows, mouth open, in an expression that reads a very amused, _Oh really?_

Eddie looks away, slightly embarrassed, slightly annoyed, and hopes that the conversation will die. And that Violet will come back. God, what's taking her so long?

The car door tears open and Violet falls into the passenger seat with a huff. The car creaking and groaning with all the movement.

"Keeping him all to yourself, Vi?" Richie asks, as Violet slams the door shut. Hair has escaped from her ponytail and she pushes it from her face in annoyance.

"Who?" she asks. "Eddie?" Richie has barely opened her mouth before she snaps, "Don't talk to him."

"Too late." Richie grins back at Eddie. Eddie is not quite sure how he should emote back, so he just looks away again.

Violet turns around to look at Eddie, too, nudging Richie out of the way so she can poke her head between the two front seats. "I apologise for whatever he said to you."

"It's alright," Eddie says, confidence re-surging now that she's here. "I shut him up."

Violet grins, proud. Richie laughs, and, unsurprisingly, it's a bright and beautiful sound.

 

 

Eddie's not quite sure what he expected out of the Tozier house. Something that looked like the two siblings in front of him, perhaps? A rich, modern house, large and neatly kept. With sparkly white walls and lush green lawns.

He gets just about the complete opposite of that.

Richie drives them to the edge of town, the houses begin to thin out and the roads turn to dirt. Eddie watches out the window, listening to the sound of Richie drumming along to the loud song on the radio, as they travel down a long, straight road called The Lane. Tall trees stand either side of them, and earth crunches beneath the tyres. The car makes a short left turn, and there it is. The Tozier house.

It's surrounded by trees, and it's a cabin. Well, no, it's a house, because it's house shaped and house sized. But it's wooden, one-storey, with a quaint little front porch that has vines curling up the veranda and an old rocking chair by the front door.

Eddie falls immediately in love with it.

The air smells clean and crisp, surrounded by all these trees (a welcome relief from the stench of smoke in Richie's car), leaves crunch beneath Eddie's sneakers as he makes his way around to the trunk. Violet struggles to open it. Richie stretches out his arms, arches his back, near the front of the car.

"Well, there it is, Eddie," Richie says, looking up at the house. The sunlight is soft on Richie's skin, where it filters in through the trees, and Eddie thinks that Richie looks a bit like an angel. An angel with terrible fashion sense, though. He wears a loud floral print shirt over a white tee, and bright blue sneakers with dark jeans. Eddie has to suppress a grin just at the sight. It's hard to believe Richie and Violet are related in that sense; Violet is always spectacularly dressed. "Mi casa...uh...your casa."

"Mi casa es su casa," Violet corrects immediately, thumping the trunk with her fist.

Richie nods, rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck before glancing over at them. The sun glints off his glasses and the corner of his smile. Eddie tries to alternate between looking at Richie, at Violet, and at their surroundings, so it doesn't look like he's staring at either of them. But the Tozier siblings are so striking it's hard not to stare.

"It's nice," Eddie says. Breathing the place in. "But I don't know what any of that stuff you just said means."

Richie splutters out a surprised laugh, and Violet gives Eddie an amused, yet warm smile.

"My house is your house," she explains, at the same time Richie grins at him and says, "I feel you, dude."

It's cozy inside. The front door opens up to a lounge-room and adjoining kitchen, fluffy rugs over the floorboards and a fireplace facing the plush couches. Violet leads Eddie to her bedroom, and Richie tries to follow, chattering on about nothing, but Violet shuts her door in his face.

("He's always trying to butt in," she snorts, as Richie drums a beat on the door and disappears down the hall, crowing a loud song the whole way. Eddie plops onto Violet's soft bed and tries not to be amused).

Violet's room is neat and tidy, with a desk covered in sewing supplies and a cupboard full of different fabrics and patches and a fashion books. She and Eddie sit on her bed and flick through them, for inspiration. Violet says she's already set on making Eddie a pair of shorts, ("because that's your trademark look. So is your fanny pack, but I'll make you one next time") so it's just up to Eddie to pick the style and fabric.

Eddie chooses a red fabric, with a white hem and a white back pocket. Loud music blares from Richie's room, slightly muffled through the door, but - after Violet tries shouting at him to turn it off - Eddie and Violet find themselves singing along to it as Violet takes Eddie's measurements. They eat cookies that Violet made herself, talk easily as Violet works, and, later, Violet tries to style Eddie an outfit using her own clothes. She puts him in acid wash jeans and a matching acid wash jacket, thrown over a black band tee.

"That band doesn't actually exist," Violet says, chewing on a cookie as she watches Eddie give her a spin. Eddie inspects the shirt - 'Wonder Violet' is written in dark purple letters below a print of an assortment of light purple flowers. "I made it up when I was, like, ten. Because I wanted to be in a band back then. Wonder Violet is the name of a real flower, by the way."

"We should start it up together," Eddie says, tugging at the hem. "I'll play the triangle. What will you do? Sing? We'll probably have to change the name though," he grins at her, "I think naming the band after yourself just makes it look like you have a big head."

"Shut up," Violet laughs. "If you're just playing the triangle then I'll have to do everything else. I think that makes it fair."

The door bangs open - with such force and suddenness that rolls of fabric leant against the wall topple to the floor, and Eddie and Violet jolt up in surprise. Richie pokes his head in, looking flushed and slightly sweaty, breathless, from all the loud singing and (presumably head-banging) he'd been doing in his room.

"You guys starting a band?" Richie asks, chest heaving. "I'll be drums."

"How did you hear our conversation?" Eddie asks, with a frown.

Richie glances at him with a grin. Does a double take when he sees what Eddie's wearing. Eddie fixes his jacket a little self-consciously. The fact that Violet's clothes are too big for him is a bit embarrassing, and not exactly something he wants her shit-talking brother to see.

"Nice outfit," Richie says, still smiling. "Looks better on you than Violet. Oh, and Eddie was right before, Vi, you can't call the band Wonder Violet. Yes - I was listening outside the door, but listen, we're calling it Wonder Richie. Or, Richie and the Wonders. The first band to have the drummer as the front man."

"That sounds like a terrible idea," Eddie says.

"I thought Violet told you not to talk to me," Richie says, teasing.

Violet pulls herself off the bed and crosses the room, pushing Richie back by his shoulders. "I've also told you a hundred times to stay out of my room. So, get out."

"I'm sorry you guys are afraid of raw, real talent," Richie says, looking at Eddie over Violet's shoulder. He gives Eddie a wink just before Violet shuts the door. And Eddie's not entirely sure what it's supposed to mean.

 

  
Here's something about Eddie: his perception of sleepovers has formed from all of the teen movies he's watched over the years. So, as the sun begins to set, the sky a darkened pink through the tops of the trees around them, he begins to wonder if he's expected to have a pillow fight with Violet. Or if they'll have facials, and gossip about their crushes. And he worries a little about that, because he doesn't actually have a crush on anyone. Also, what if Violet asks him to braid her hair? He doesn't know how.

Thankfully, life at the Tozier's house is not a teen movie (though, honestly, Eddie wouldn't mind having a pillow fight) and they make dinner together instead. Violet plays indie-pop songs over the stereo ("this is the kind of music we'll play in Wonder Violet," she tells Eddie, "not Richie's screechy stuff"), and pulls up a cookbook, picking a recipe by random. Eddie chops vegetables (because that's all he can do, he's never cooked before), and Violet starts on a sauce, and soon the kitchen is smoky and warm and smells of sweet stir fry.

It feels so cozy. It feels like how a home is supposed to feel. With dirty dishes piling up in the sink, and a purpling sky glowing through the steamed windows, and the TV playing on mute, and Violet humming as she cooks, wiping sweat from her brow.

Nobody tells Eddie off for using a large knife, or for getting too close to the stove, or for literally anything. Richie pads out from the hall, scratching his hip, looking rumpled, like he'd had a short nap. And they all eat dinner together on the couch, shouting answers at game shows.

But there's one thing that nags at the back of Eddie's mind, as the night turns dark. The house lit by soft lighting: the coloured glow of the TV screen, a warm lamp in the corner of the room. Richie disappears into his bedroom and Eddie and Violet lounge around watching a nature documentary. And it's just the three of them, in the house. As the minutes tick by and turn into hours. There's no overbearing mother fussing about in the background. There's no mother at all.

Eddie debates over asking Violet where her parents are. It might be weird, him being so worried about it. He's sure Violet is glad not to have any adults around. And Eddie is too, he supposes. It just feels weird. And a little daunting. Like, what happens if one of them starts choking on something? Or if someone breaks into the house? Who will protect them?

 _You can protect yourself_ , Eddie thinks, scoffs. _You're sixteen years old_. And so is Violet. And Richie's eighteen. He's an adult. Legally.

So, he doesn't need his mother, or Violet's mother, or any mother, around to help him. He'll be _fine._

"You alright, Eddie?" Violet asks, noting his silence. She kicks her feet up onto his lap, looking soft and a little sleepy in the orange light.

"Yeah." He considers whether he should tell her. That this is his first ever sleepover and that she's his first ever best friend - friend, _period_ \- and that he's nervous and overthinking everything. But he's not sure if she'd understand. He doesn't really understand himself, but still. Violet Tozier has her life together. You only have to take one look at her, with her clothes that are tailored to her body, so they look so much better than anything anyone else wears, hair sleek and shiny, her back straight and head held high, to know that she is sure of who she is and who she wants to be. It makes Eddie wonder why she likes him at all, really, because he is so completely the _opposite_ of that. Telling her feels like he'd just be opening a door to shame and embarrassment. "I'm just getting a bit tired."

"Me too. David Attenborough's voice always puts me to sleep." Violet pokes her socked toe into Eddie's thigh. "Let's go to bed. You can sleep on an air mattress in my room."

As they head down to the shadowy hallway, they pass the door to Richie's room. It's open, and though the lights are off, Eddie can still make out the complete mess of clothes and godknowswhat strewn across the floor and bed.

Richie is nowhere in sight.

Violet says nothing about it. So neither does Eddie.

 

  
The following morning Eddie is woken twice. Once, when the room is still dark and the light peeking in through the windows is a blue-tinted haze, because Violet is getting up to go for a run and wants to know if Eddie wants to go with her (he does, but he can't keep his eyes open so he falls back asleep). The second time is to the sound of a coffee machine rumbling loudly from the kitchen. The sun is higher in the sky now, so Eddie stretches and gets out of bed. Rolls out the kinks in his shoulders as he treads down the hall.

He's expecting to find Violet in the kitchen. Sweaty and flushed from her run, or freshly showered and smelling of strawberry shampoo. Making coffee for the both of them. (And it'd probably be the best coffee he's ever tasted, because this is Violet he's talking about).

Instead, he finds Richie. Leant against the counter tentatively sipping from a mug. His hair is a wild mess of curls atop his head, and there's fading red crease marks from his pillow on his cheek. Glasses slightly askew, and eyes still droopy from sleep, Richie greets Eddie with a smile.

"Morning, ol' chap," he says, the British accent returning. "You didn't go for a run with Violet? I thought she only had freak of nature friends."

"She tried to get me up at, like, five am," Eddie says. He crosses his arms, covering his elbows with his hands. Glances towards the front door, like maybe if he looks at it and hopes hard enough, Violet will walk right through it. She doesn't. "I couldn't stay awake. I don't know how she does it."

"Like I said: freak of nature." Richie takes a sip of his coffee and winces like it's too hot. Then, he glances over at Eddie and lifts his mug. "Want some?"

Eddie shrugs and Richie pours him a mug. Even though he knows it's probably too hot, Eddie takes a sip almost as soon as the drink is handed to him. Because the silence they have fallen into is the heavy, very _obvious_ kind of silence that falls over people who don't know each other. But Eddie doesn't know how to fill it, so he drinks to avoid talking.

This is a bad idea, however, because as soon as the liquid hits his tongue, he almost spits it back out.

"Wha..." He hasn't swallowed, raises a hand to his mouth to avoid spilling the drink pooling behind his teeth. Contemplates spitting it out into the sink before he finally swallows roughly, shuddering. "What _is_ this?"

"Coffee," replies Richie simply.

Eddie pulls a face. "It's terrible."

"Yeah, I don't know how to make coffee."

Eddie places his mug on the counter, desperately needs something to wash out the disgusting taste in his mouth. He frowns as he watches Richie lift his own mug to his lips.

"How can you drink that?" Eddie asks.

"Coffee is disgusting to me either way, so it doesn't make a difference. I just drink it for the caffeine," Richie explains. "It's easier if you do this." Then he pinches his nose between his fingers and downs the rest of his drink in three large gulps. Eddie gapes at him.

He can't believe that last night he was reassured by the fact that Richie was an adult, because he seems like that farthest thing from one right now.

Though, Eddie is a little impressed that Richie managed to drink all that.

"You just can't unplug your nose until you eat something else," Richie says, voice nasally. "Because the taste'll linger in your mouth. You know, I think I heard once that if you do this, eat something horrendous and then unplug your nose, the sudden change from tasting nothing to tasting something disgusting can make you go into shock."

Eddie furrows his brow. Richie plucks an apple from the fruit bowl and takes a bite.

"Is that really true?" Eddie asks.

"Dunno. Think so. You have to eat something really gross though."

"Like mouldy cheese?"

"Blue cheese is mouldy cheese," Richie points out. "And some people love it."

"Blue cheese is fucking disgusting," Eddie says, wrinkling his nose. "I don't trust anyone who likes it."

Richie laughs around a mouthful of apple. "That's fair."

The sound of the front door interrupts them, a very sweaty Violet entering the room. She gives Eddie a quick, breathless smile, kicks off her shoes, and then pauses. Glances back at the disgusted look on Eddie's face, and breathes in the odd smell in the air.

"Oh no," she says, eyes widening at Eddie. "Richie gave you some of his awful coffee, didn't he?" She fixes Richie with an exasperated look. "Jesus, Rich, you really trying to poison my friend?"

"Hey, I'm drinking it too," Richie says.

"Yeah, but I don't care if you get poisoned."

Richie lets out a gasp, placing a hand over his chest, dramatically offended. Eddie presses down a smile, which is much harder to do when Violet catches his gaze, grinning herself.

"I can't believe you're friends with someone so _mean_ ," Richie whispers loudly to Eddie, leaning over as though that's just supposed to be a secret between the two of them.

Violet rolls her eyes. Richie throws his apple into the air and catches it. Eddie watches him leave the room.

 

And maybe it is weird, the absence of a parental figure at the Tozier home. Maybe all of it's weird; the wooden house, the wayout location, the fact that Richie and Violet are related. But when Eddie's back home, later that day, sitting on the couch (which is covered in plastic) and breathing in the air (which smells of cleaning detergents) as his mother bombards him with questions about his night, and fusses over a new bruise that had somehow formed on his knee, he misses the Tozier house as though it was own home.

It becomes his favourite place.

He spends his days after school in Violet's room, listening to her sewing machine whirr, letting her pin fabrics around his waist, his legs. They stretch out on her bed and talk idly about school and Violet's friends. They make popcorn on the stove and watch movies on the couch. They go running down the The Lane, in that sweet spot where the sun has gone down but it's still light. They listen to music on the kitchen floor and dream about Wonder Violet.

It's like living in a different world. Where Eddie would once spend his days alone, or at his mother's side. Living a life that was neatly ordered and full of restrictions. Don't touch this, don't talk to them, don't think those thoughts. He now spends his days with Violet Tozier. And, sure, she is a neat and orderly person. Sure, she has her routines and her restrictions. But she has a life. A full, bright wonderful life. With Violet Tozier, Eddie wanders through the trees behind her house, hands brushing bark, listening to her tell tales of her childhood. With Violet Tozier, Eddie bakes a triple layer cake, just for the fun of it, and gets frosting all over his shirt. With Violet Tozier, Eddie is _happy._

There's still no sign of parents around at their house, though. And Richie comes and goes. His bedroom empty more often than not. But Eddie doesn't pay it much mind.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It's been just over two weeks since Eddie's sleepover at the Tozier's when Eddie finds himself in town by himself on an Wednesday evening. It's odd not being with Violet, but he has some errands to run for his mother. Pills and groceries, the usual. In fact, everything about this evening is very usual, but Eddie walks with his back much straighter than usual, a little smile playing at the corner of his lips.

He's got his new red shorts on for the very first time. Violet had given them to him at school, and he'd tried them on the moment he got home. They fit so much better than any other pair of shorts he owns, are far more comfortable. And they look, surprisingly, _good_. Eddie had stared at himself in his room's tall mirror for a very long time, twisting this way and that to get a good look at them. He'd never thought much about his legs, except for when he wished they were a little more muscular, a little less skinny. But they...somehow...look nice in these shorts.

He makes a mental note to tell Violet she's a genius.

He wears the shorts now, as he wanders down the streets of town, checking off items on his shopping list. Despite the fact that it's getting a little chilly, a slight breeze whipping at the fabric of his grey sweater, the sky cloudy and dull, darkening with dark oranges and grey-blues as the sun sets. The roads are quieter here, as he nears the edges of the main roads to get to a little health food store his mother swears by.

He's leaving the store, poking through his shopping bag, when he hears laughter. The cold, snarky kind that makes his skin prickle.

"Look at this," he hears someone say. "Look. Ever seen him before?"

Eddie tenses, glancing around, certain that the voice is talking about him. He gaze catches on wisps of smoke wafting from an alleyway, and, as he moves a little closer, the people it belongs to.

"Hey." There's a group of teenagers huddled in the alley, sporting lit cigarettes and unfriendly smiles. Watching Eddie as he walks. The boy speaking has a choppy brown mullet and a shark-like grin, looks Eddie up and down. "Whatcha doing out here all by yourself, hm? With your legs out?" He licks his teeth. "Not very safe."

"Look at his little gay shorts," snorts another boy, with an equally as terrible mullet. "You looking to get some, eh, fag?"

The little group erupts into a chorus of snickers. Eddie blushes bright red from his toes, the heat from both embarrassment and anger. Mouth opening to snap something back, but closing in shock when he notices a familiar head of dark curls behind the group.

Richie. He has his shoulder leant against the bricked wall of the alley, but his body angled away from Eddie. Is smoking and chatting lazily with a few other teenagers, completely unperturbed by the scene playing out next to him.

"Wanna smoke?" the first boy asks Eddie, and Eddie tears his wide eyed gaze away from Richie. "Aww, look at his little scared face!" the boy laughs. "Queers are so funny. It's just weed, no need to piss your pants."

"Shut up," Eddie finally blurts, voice tight. "Seriously, fuck off."

Behind the group, Richie turns his head and meets Eddie's gaze. The group continues to laugh.

"Come on, don't be a pussy," the second mullet boy says, waving his joint out in front of him. "Have a smoke."

"I don't want one," Eddie says icily. His heart is pounding and the foul smell of weed is so thick he swallows it and it gets stuck in his throat. He needs to get the fuck out of here. "That shit's disgusting."

The taunts continue, full of _"pussy"_ and _"fag"_. Bristling, Eddie takes a step away from them, but a hand shoots out and grabs his arm. Eddie tears away from the grip so quickly it's as though he's been burnt, staring at the first mullet boy in outraged shock.

"What the fuck --" Eddie begins, the same moment Richie steps up into the group and says, "Hey, man, leave him alone."

The boy glances at Richie with a raised brow. "What do you care, Tozier? You know messing with fags is fun."

"Come on, dude, he's like half your size. You look like a douchebag," Richie says.

"The fuck, Richie?" mullet boy asks, looking genuinely surprised, and affronted, at Richie's words. The attention has lifted off Eddie now, and he takes it as an opportunity to slink away.

He hears a shout follow after him as he marches down the street, and he thrusts his middle finger into the air, then ducks his head and walks faster. Nausea rolls over in his stomach, as well as sharp, hot anger, because _what the fuck?_ What the fuck? Richie Tozier hangs around with assholes. It's not like Eddie's ever been particularly fond of Richie, he hardly knows him, but he never thought that he'd be the type of person to hang around people like _that._

And sure, Richie stood up for him, but...it doesn't really feel like it. The whole thing makes Eddie feel uneasy, uncomfortable. And pissed off.

He walks for what feels likes ages, turning down random roads, going around in circles, because he's too busy ranting angrily in his head to focus on where he's going. It's dark now, the streets littered with glowing streetlamps and bright car headlights. And cold. Eddie shivers as he pauses to squint at a street sign. Wandering around town really wasn't the best idea, considering Eddie doesn't know it all that well. He's lost.

"Shit," Eddie mutters, rubbing his cold fingers across his equally as cold nose. None of the roads around him look familiar. "Goddammit." He's going to die out here, isn't he? Carrying bags of sugar-free everything.

You know, he's always wondered what his funeral would be like. Before, he'd pictured a quaint little church with his mother sobbing on the front pew, a funeral directer in a dark suit standing by his casket, and the rest of the aisles empty. Now, he imagines Violet would be there too. Dressed in a neat black dress, silent tears rolling down her face. Her makeup would still be perfectly intact.

 _"You know, Eddie was always my favourite,"_ Violet would calmly tell his hysterical mother. _"I much preferred him to all the girls I hung out with. I say 'hung' because I don't hang out with them anymore. I don't think I can ever have another friend again. Not after Eddie. He was truly my **best** friend."_

And Eddie's pretty happy with that thought. Though, he wishes he didn't have to be dead for that to happen, because he kinda wants to hear Violet say that himself.

The sound of a loud, grumbly engine breaks Eddie from his thoughts, and a car slowly rolls up next to him. Eddie blinks against the light of the headlights, and he isn't afraid. Because he recognises the sound of the engine immediately.

"Need a taxi?" comes Richie's voice, through the rolled down window. "Free of charge."

Eddie is a little split in half, because he's relieved to have someone rescue him, but Richie is also the last person he wants to see right now. He lies, "I'm good."

"You're gonna walk home by yourself in the dark?" Richie asks, sceptical. "It's getting cold, man, come on."

"I'm fine, dude, really..." Eddie starts. Richie reaches over the centre console and pushes open the passenger door.

"You gotta be crazy not to accept a free ride," Richie says. "Plus, you look lost, so I think I'm saving your ass right now."

Eddie sighs, shoulders sagging. _"Fine."_ He flops onto the passenger seat, sets his bags down by his feet, and pulls the door loudly shut. He keeps his body rigid, jaw tight, hopes to give off a haughty, unapproachable vibe that'll prevent Richie from speaking to him.

Richie pulls away from the curb, and Eddie's gaze slides over to Richie's wrists. The way the streetlamps flicker onto the leather bands, colourful braided string, small silver bracelets, that slide from the sleeve of his denim jacket to the base of his hand as he steers. When they pull up a stoplight, Richie rests his elbow on the door and puts one of the leather bands beneath his teeth. He glances at Eddie.

"I'm not friends with those guys, by the way," Richie says.

Eddie picks at his fingernails and doesn't look at him. "Why were you hanging out with them, then?"

"They sell me cheap weed." Richie shrugs, watches the stoplight. He chews again on the leather band, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel with his other hand. Gives off a jittery, nervous energy.

"Right." Eddie's not sure what to think. "Well, thanks, for sticking up for me." Eddie's also not sure if he means that, but it feels like something he should say.

"Yeah, 'course," Richie replies. You're my sister's best friend."

The words hit Eddie with a little force, leaves his eyes wide open. He thinks back to where Richie had stood, right behind the little group containing the two mullet boys. He had turned as soon as he'd heard Eddie's voice, which means he could hear what was happening, but had been ignoring it all up until then.

"So if I wasn't Violet's friend, you wouldn't have done anything?" Eddie asks, voice turned cold.

"Wha - ?"

"How many other people have they harassed like that? Do you just ignore them?" Eddie continues, looks at the side of Richie's face. "Do you join in?"

Richie turns his head quickly to gape at him, "What?" He looks back at the road. "Jesus, Eddie, I..."

"'Messing with fags is fun', right?" Eddie quotes, bitterly.

"No. Fuck, no. I don't do any of that shit, what the fuck? I just saved your ass, man, why the fuck are you pissed at me?"

"I didn't ask you to do anything of this shit," Eddie snaps, heated. "And you didn't 'save me', I was fine by myself."

"Whatever. I _helped_ you. And I would've done it whether I knew you or not," Richie replies angrily. 

Eddie huffs, folds his arms over his chest. He doesn't know if he believes him, he has no reason _to_ believe him.

A few uncomfortable minutes pass. Richie's fingers fidget over the steering wheel, he glances back over at Eddie. "I'm really not friends with them," he says. Eddie locks his jaw. "I'm not that big of an asshole."

It doesn't matter. Anything Richie says...it's just going in one ear and out the other. Eddie has been harassed by assholes like that his whole life, by groups of rough-looking boys who will tease and mock and push him around. And sure, in all of those groups, there are the boys who just laugh, or just watch. But Eddie hates them, too.

And as far as he's concerned, Richie is one of them.

The rest of the ride is carried on in tense silence. Eddie stares straight ahead and thinks of what he's going to tell Violet. Does she know? That Richie hangs around people like that? Has she tried to do anything about it? Richie probably hides it from her. Sneaks off all the time. It explains why his bedroom is so often mysteriously empty.

They turn onto Eddie's street. It's weird to think that just a few hours ago he had walked down here, all excited in his new shorts. He picks at the white-trim hem now and feels a little stupid. _Look at his little gay shorts._

"They look good," Richie says, noticing the way Eddie fidgets with them. They've stopped in front of Eddie's house. Eddie meets Richie's gaze, those dark eyes behind his glasses, steady and serious. "Really good, Eddie." 

"Thanks," Eddie replies. But the word is sharp, because he doesn't mean it.

He grabs his things and climbs out the car before Richie can say anything else.

He wonders if Richie would go to his funeral. He wonders if there's a way to make sure he doesn't. 

 

The moment Eddie shuts himself in his room - groceries left on the kitchen table - he considers calling Violet. And crying. And doing both at the same time.

But he and Violet have never done anything like that before - crying in front of each other. They don't really talk about their feelings or emotions or anything like that at all. Eddie's not sure if friends are _supposed_ to talk about that stuff. Or if you're only supposed to be vulnerable in front of your mother. Which he is, he's cried in front of her many times. And his ma's hugs used to be so comforting as a child, but they're not now. Not now that he's sure she's been lying to him for so long.

So Eddie sits on his bed and cries alone. Hot, salty tears that are both angered and sad. He tugs his shorts off, bunches them up in his hand, and stops himself just as he's about to throw them at the wall.

 _Who gives a fuck?_ he thinks to himself, in a voice that sounds eerily like a mixture of Violet's and his own. _Who cares if those douchebags don't like his shorts? Think they're gay or whatever? He likes them. And maybe he_ is _..._

He stops that thought quickly. And pulls his shorts back on.

 

  
Violet _does_ know about Richie's asshole friends, had tried to convince Richie to stop hanging out with them years ago. But it was no use. ( _"Because he just cares about the weed,"_ she had said, bitterly.  _"He doesn't give a fuck about what they do, or the kind of people they are"_ ). So Eddie was right. Richie just lets those douchebags harass people on the street.

Eddie avoids Richie as much as possible. Which is both hard, because he now practically lives at the Tozier house, and easy, because he spends most of his time in Violet's room, and Richie is hardly at home anyway. There are still the car rides after school that he has to deal with, though, because Richie always picks them up. Thankfully, Richie usually has his music too loud for there to be any possibility of conversation, and lets Eddie sit silent and sullen in the back seat. Sometimes he'll try and ask them about their day, jokingly prod for some school gossip, and Violet will either swiftly answer or tell him to shut up.

And so the days go on. But, despite the whole Richie complication, they really are the best days of Eddie's life.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It's been about a month since his first sleepover at the Tozier residence when Eddie has his second one. There's no nerves this time, no overthinking, because Eddie is at the stage where he knows which cupboards hold the glasses and which holds the bowls and where he needs to look if he wants cereal. He's comfortable, lounging on the couch while Violet looks through the VHS tapes, listing off names of movies. It's dark outside, the trees only tall shadowy figures through the windows, the room only lit by the blue screen of the TV. Richie isn't home.

"How about a horror?" Violet asks, poking her head into the cabinet beneath the television. "We have a ton of those. Richie's obsessed with them."

"I don't know..." Eddie says. "I mean, we're home alone. It's already scary enough in here."

And, as though the universe heard him, someone tries to open the front door.

Eddie and Violet both jolt, startled. Eddie scrambles up to look at the door so quickly he almost falls off the couch. But then Violet laughs and says, "It's just Richie."

Eddie settles. The door swings open. It's not Richie.

The moment Eddie realises that, he almost shits himself. The moment when he sees a face and doesn't recognise it. But it only lasts for a tenth of a second, because Violet says, mildly, "Oh! Mom, you're home." And the woman at the door looks up at them and Eddie can't believe he was ever scared at all.

She has the same dark hair and pale skin as her children, though her hair is wispy and cut into a bob around her round face. And she's a little, fragile looking thing. With bony elbows and slender wrists. It's almost a wonder that she manages to carry the overnight bag that she shuffles through the door with her.

Eddie still hasn't gathered up the courage to ask Violet about her family life, but he's collected up enough information to know that Violet and Richie live with their single mother, and that she works a _lot_. It shows, in the dark bags under her eyes.

"This is Eddie," Violet says. "I've told you about him before. He's sleeping over."

"Oh." Violet's mother nods and gives Eddie a small smile. "Hi, Eddie."

"Hi, Ms Tozier. It's nice to meet you."

"Please." Her smiles becomes much warmer. "Call me Maggie."

Eddie smiles back, "Hi, Maggie."

Maggie gives another little nod and then looks around distractedly. "I'm going to go put my bag away. Where's Richie?"

"Dunno." Violet shrugs, already turning back to the VHS tapes. "Out."

"He's out a lot, isn't he?" Maggie asks. "Is he with friends? Or does he have a girlfriend?"

Violet laughs, throws her head back and cackles. "Richie. With a _girlfriend_. Can you imagine?" She looks at Eddie, a glint in her eye, like he's in on the joke. Eddie _can't_ really imagine Richie with a girlfriend, so he supposes it's funny. "You know what..." Violet continues, suddenly thoughtful. "I think there is a girl he likes. She hangs out with that group of assholes. Oh, it all makes sense now. That's why he's with them all the time. You cracked it, mom."

Maggie smiles politely, like she has any idea what Violet just said. "Richie doesn't have nice friends?"

"Nah, they're all kinda dicks. But I don't think you can really call them 'friends'," Violet replies.

Maggie hums, presses her lips together. Brow furrowing thoughtfully. And it's so weird, how little she knows about her children's lives. Eddie is so used to his mother knowing nearly every aspect of his. Except she still doesn't know about Violet, thinks Eddie is spending all this time with that nice boy named Joe.

"Right. Well, do you kids need anything?" Maggie asks, after a moment.

"We're good. Go rest, mom. You look tired," Violet says. Maggie doesn't argue with that, instead tells them both goodnight and shuffles down the hall.

And that's Eddie's first experience with Maggie Tozier. It's a bit jarring, at first, her quiet and timid nature, considering her children are so confident and bright in their own different ways. But she's incredibly kind, and thoughtful, and not overbearing in the slightest. Eddie likes her a lot. And she seems to like Eddie. Even though they don't see each other often, and she's quite distant and easily distracted, she remembers a lot of little things about him. Like how he has an affinity for Skittles. Eddie hardly remembers telling her, but she comes home a little earlier from work one day, while Eddie is over, and pulls a packet of Skittles out from her purse. Eddie almost consumes them all in one breath, because he so rarely gets them.

And she doesn't mind at all that Eddie is over so often. She welcomes him into her home with open arms. Says he can stay over whenever he wants. She even buys him a toothbrush, to keep in the bathroom, and Eddie almost cries, because it's perhaps the most touching thing anyone's ever done.

It feels like this is where he's supposed to live. Like the Tozier's are his real family.

Except. There's Richie.

They still hardly speak. Eddie's not angry at him anymore, because it's been long enough that the anger has faded. But he still doesn't particularly like him.

But he's curious about him. Namely, he's curious about the girl he's supposedly into. Eddie can't remember seeing a girl that night he had found Richie hanging with those douchebags, so he just wants to see if she actually exists, is all.

That's why he's follows Richie into a place called the Barrens one Saturday afternoon.

Before you get any thoughts: he's not _stalking_ Richie, or anything. He hardly even _followed_ him. It's just, Violet has gotten him really into running, but she's a bit under the weather, so he was running on his own today. And he'd happened to see Richie's car parked on the side of the road, and had decided to check it out, because maybe it'd give him something to laugh about with Violet later.

He'd found Richie and his group pretty quickly, because he all had to do was follow the sound of obnoxious laughter and the smell of foul smoke. They're just sitting around under the cover of trees, passing joints to one another. Eddie keeps a fair distance, but he circles around them a couple of times. He can't see any girls.

Eddie watches them for a few more minutes before he gets bored, and decides to explore a bit. He gives the group the finger before he turns around, even though they can't see it, because looking at them just reminds him of that night, which makes him nauseous, so he thinks he deserves that private satisfaction.

There's a shallow river only a few metres away, and he toes his way over the rocky bank to dip his hands in the cool water and wash the sweat from his face.

It's nice out here. Peaceful. With the soft sounds of the river running and faraway birds chirping and leaves rustling. He and Violet should come down here together some time. Maybe Violet could make him a pair of swimmers, because he doesn't have any, and they could splash around in the river when the weather gets really warm. Surely the water gets deeper a little further down.

An odd, strangled sort of chirping noise catches Eddie's attention, and his gaze is drawn to the other side of the river, where a little bird lays, injured, on the bank. It flaps one of it's wings helplessly, rolling around a bit in the dirt.

"What happened to you?" Eddie asks, as though the bird could possibly understand him. He dips his feet into the river, water soaking through his sneakers, and treks over to the other side. The bird chirps frantically at him as he gets closer. "Do you want some help?"

If it was any other day, Eddie would be able to reach into his fanny pack and pull out a bandage, or some Band-Aids, or _something_ to help the bird. But he's not wearing it right now, because it gets a little annoying on runs.

The Tozier house isn't too far from here. Maybe, he thinks, he could walk the bird over there and Violet could help him.

He also thinks, though, that the bird could be covered in germs and riddled with disease, and he doesn't really want to touch it.

"I'm, um, not really sure what to do here," Eddie confesses. The bird squawks impatiently at him. "Ok, fine, I'll take you to Violet, jeez."

It takes a little while to psych himself up to touch it, but finally Eddie scoops the bird up in his hands and crosses back over the river, muttering, _"ew, ew, gross, ew,"_ under his breath the whole way.

He's just stepping onto the rocky bank when the bird jolts in his hands with a loud screech, and the suddenness of it causes Eddie to miss his step, slipping on the rocks' surface. His foot falls into a small hole between two rocks as he tips forwards. And he drops the bird in a frantic attempt to catch himself.

He doesn't. He falls completely. With his foot still stuck in the rocks.

The pain that flares up in his ankle is so white-hot that he _screams_.

"FUCK." Tears burn his eyes. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck!"_

"Holy shit, _Eddie?"_

Eddie lifts his head and, through the haze of tears, can see the group of assholes surrounding him. Richie stands at the front, eyes wide. Eddie hadn't even noticed them approach.

"Shit, Eddie, are you okay? Fuck," Richie continues, stepping closer. It's a dumb question, considering Eddie is a sobbing, blubbery mess, and he had a screamed bloody murder only a minute ago.

"Is the bird okay?" Eddie asks weakly.

"The _what?"_ one of the asshole's snorts, and the rest snicker. "What the fuck is wrong with him, Richie?"

Richie ignores them, gaze travelling down Eddie's leg. "Fuck, your foot," he says quietly. "It's stuck." He crouches down, and Eddie can no longer see him, but he already knows what Richie's planning to do.

"Don't fucking touch it," Eddie says quickly. "Get away from me, I'll do it myself." He tries to pull it free, but hisses loudly at the pain. "Just...don't..."

"I won't," Richie says. "What were you talking about before? A bird?"

"Y-yeah, I found an injured bird. I was trying to help it -- " Richie grabs his leg and pulls it free without warning and Eddie breaks off with a loud yelp. _"What the fuck!"_

The assholes erupt into laughter. Tears spring into Eddie eyes, and he scrambles up into a sitting position, ankle throbbing.

"Had to do it like a Band-Aid," Richie explains.

"No! No you didn't!" Eddie yells, tries to bring his leg toward him but pain shoots up his entire body. "You could've done it _gently_ , you fucking idiot!"

Richie's face falls. Like he hadn't thought of that. Fucking _idiot_. "Oh."

_God, why did this have to happen to him? He's broken his fucking ankle and the only people around to help him are a bunch of cackling assholes and Richie fucking Tozier._

He feels light headed.

"I need an ambulance. I think I'm going into shock," Eddie babbles, tears dripping from his chin. The scene around him sways a little. "My ankles broken, it's fucking broken, I need a doctor."

"Oh my god, he's such a fucking pussy," one of the assholes says. Eddie's pretty sure it's one of the ugly mullet boys. "Let's get out of here."

"We can't just fucking leave him," Richie says. His face is a little blurry in Eddie's vision, and Eddie can't tell if it's because of his tears or because he feels like he's going to pass out.

"Yeah we can," the second mullet boy says. "We have joints that need smoking."

"I'm your ride, dipshit," Richie points out.

"Then give us the keys."

"No."

The first mullet boy steps forward, rolls up his sleeves, and Richie straightens up on his feet. There's some scuffling, mullet boy trying to snatch the car keys from Richie's pocket. But Eddie doesn't watch. Squeezes his eyes shut, whines _"fuuck, fuck fuck, shit fuck..."_ under his breath and tries not to focus on the screeching pain in his ankle.

He opens his eyes when he hears a loud _oof,_ and sees that Richie has been pushed down onto the rocks, glasses hanging from one ear and clothes dishevelled. Mullet boy stands victoriously before him, car keys hanging from his fingers.

"Thanks for the car," he snickers. "Have fun with the fag." He and the rest of the assholes leave, laughing.

"Have fun sucking your dad's dick, you fucking asshole!" Richie yells back. He fixes his glasses, catches his breath, and then turns to Eddie.

"That's your fault," Eddie says. "For still hanging around them." His head is swimming. He thinks maybe this is what it feels like to be drunk.

"You're right," Richie says. Moves closer. "Come on, I gotta get you some help. Home is probably the closest. You reckon you can walk if you put your arm around my shoulders?"

Eddie tries to stand, but his ankle screams in protest whenever he attempts to put any weight on it. And he's too short to hook an arm over Richie's shoulders anyway. Richie grips Eddie's side to keep him balanced as he sways on one foot. His hand feels big, fingers digging in below Eddie's ribs.

"How about I carry you?" Richie suggests.

"No."

"Hop on my back," Richie continues, ignored him, "that's probably the easiest way."

Eddie blinks, very slowly, so he sees a lot of black, bursts of colour behind his eyelids, before he's looking back into Richie's worried, pale face.

"What about the bird?" Eddie asks.

"I don't see any bird," Richie says, a little impatient now. "Come on, Eddie, we really need to get you some help."

That's true. Eddie finally nods, reluctantly, and Richie turns around, crouching over and gripping Eddie's thighs. He pulls Eddie up onto his back easily, even though Eddie can't jump to help him, and it's almost like he weighs nothing. Eddie wraps his arms around Richie's neck, his stomach doing a weird jolt.

"Good?" Richie asks, as Eddie tries to settle comfortably on the warm expanse of his back.

"I guess," Eddie mumbles, feels dizzy. Richie's hair tickles his face. "The bird probably ran away."

"Probably," Richie agrees.

 

 

Eddie is quiet for most of the walk. Richie rambles angrily about the assholes taking his car for a bit, but soon he finds talking and walking too hard, and they continue most of trek to the Tozier house in silence.

Eddie is sure that having his leg hanging like this isn't good for his ankle, because it really fucking hurts, but he doesn't say anything about it, because there's not much else they can do. Instead, he buries his face in Richie's neck, focuses on the sound of Richie's heavy breathing, and the feeling of Richie's large hands gripping his bare thighs. Every now and then Richie will murmur _"You good?"_ and _"Almost there"_ , giving Eddie's thighs a reassuring squeeze. And it's...nice.

He feels relieved when they finally make it to The Lane, those familiar tall trees watching over them. Richie's breathing has become laboured, grunts out _"Almost there,"_ every few steps, more to himself than to Eddie.

And then they're on the front porch, and Richie pushes the front door open, and they're greeted with the image of Violet on the couch in her pyjamas, surrounded by tissues.

"Vi," Richie says, voice terse. She looks over immediately.

"Oh my god. What _happened?"_

It's all a bit of a haze, Violet helping him onto the couch, icing his ankle, strapping it up. But Eddie remembers the way Richie had changed as soon as Eddie slipped off his back. Violet asked Richie question after question, and the calm, reassuring Richie from the walk home vanished, and instead became an anxious, rambly thing.

_"He got his foot stuck in some rocks and, fuck, Vi, it just didn't look right. It's probably broken, shit, should we call an ambulance? Can we afford an ambulance? Maybe I should drive him to the hospital."_

Violet, on the other hand, is calm. She gets Eddie comfortable on the couch and props his leg up on some cushion, inspects his swollen ankle. Richie watches from a little way behind her, running his fingers through his hair. The whole scene is bleary from Eddie's tired eyes.

"I mean, it's hard to tell," Violet says, "but I don't think it's broken. It looks a lot like your ankle did, Richie, when you sprained it. Remember, when you were, like, twelve? And you cried all day?"

"Do you really have to bring that up now?" Richie asks, still tense. His wide eyes land on Eddie. "Should I call your mother, Eddie? I should probably take you home."

"No, don't," Eddie answers immediately. Richie looks a little taken back, but there's no way Eddie can face his mother right now. She'll probably burst into tears. _"Oh my Eddie, my poor Eddie! I'm never letting you outside again!"_ she'll sob. Or something dramatic like that. Just the thought makes him anxious. "I don't think I can move around too much," is what Eddie says. "Too painful."

So Eddie stays right there on that couch. And Richie disappears fretfully into his room. And Violet puts the TV on, gets him a glass of water and something to eat.

"I've never broken a bone before," Eddie rambles to her, stressed. He's still thinking of how worried his mother will be, and how worried Richie appears to be, and how worried he is. And now that his head has cleared a bit, he can express it. "Or sprained my ankle, or anything like that. I've never...the worst injury I've had was when I fell off my bike and scraped a shit ton of skin off my knee. Will it take long to heal? Will I be okay?"

Violet doesn't say anything. She sits down on the couch and lifts Eddie's head onto her lap, carding her fingers through his hair. A gentle, comforting gesture, her fingernails lightly scratching at his scalp. As far as Eddie's concerned, Violet is not a touchy person. The most he and Violet do is put their feet in each other's laps when they're watching movies. So this is new for them, for him.

And Eddie completely melts into it. Into the reassurance of her touch, the warmth of her thighs. Has to stop himself from nuzzling down into her lap. But he can't help the little content hum that rises from his throat.

"You'll be fine," Violet says, in a soft, but sort of no-nonsense manner. "No one's died from a sprained ankle. And I won't let you be the first."

Her fingers ghost over his forehead, brushes away the hair that is threatening to fall over Eddie's eyes. He can't remember the last time he was touched like this, with care, with thought. His mother's hugs were warm but smothering. And he's had no one else. Perhaps this is the first time he's ever been touched like this at all.

"Thanks, Violet," Eddie whispers, eyes fluttering shut. And he loves her. So intensely. He loves his best friend. And he knows she loves him.

 

 

Both Violet and Richie offer to let Eddie take their beds, but he doesn't want to impose, and also he's not sure he can move, so he sleeps on the couch. Well...he doesn't actually sleep. He slips in and out of a very light form of unconsciousness, eyes fluttering, because the pain in his ankle makes it hard to feel anything close to relaxed.

Now, it's a little after midnight, at least, he's assuming it is, and he's almost wide awake. Right in his line of sight are the glass sliding doors that lead out the back. The curtains aren't fully drawn, so he can the shadows of trees under a dark moonlit sky. The way the leaves sway in wind. He thinks of the little injured bird. He hopes it's doing better than he is right now.

Even though he had been adamant about not seeing his mother, he does kind of wish she was here. It's so stupid, he's sixteen years old and wanting his mama. But, he feels safe with her, and she _would_ know what to do about his injury. Maybe if he was home he'd actually be getting some sleep right now.

He wishes Maggie was here too. She'd be able to nurture him in that motherly sort of way he's so desperate for, without being overbearing. He kind of thinks of her as mother, even though he sees her so rarely. She treats him like a son. Would that make Violet his sister? He likes the thought of that.

The thought of Richie as his brother doesn't sit right though. 

Footsteps pad down the hall and Eddie cranes his neck to try and see over the back of the couch. "Violet?" he asks.

"Yes, it is me, Violet," is the reply, the voice monotone, almost robotic sounding.

"That sounds nothing like her," Eddie says, wrinkling his nose. Richie comes around the side of the couch, standing near Eddie's feet. He wears an old, loose fitting shirt and boxers, hair a wild nest as is it always is when he gets out of bed, and no glasses. Eddie's never seen him without them. Richie looks even more unfairly beautiful when his eyes are normal sized. Sleepy and soft.

"What are you talking about? It sounded exactly like her. Vi's a robot," Richie says, with a small grin. "She has like, no emotions."

"Yes she does," Eddie huffs, gives him a dark look. Richie holds his hands up as though surrendering.

"Sorry, I won't ever say anything bad about her again," Richie teases. Eddie huffs again. Richie's eyes land on his injured leg, and his smile fades. "How's your ankle? The pain keeping you up?"

A sharp bullet of pain shoots through his ankle at Richie's words, as though it heard him. Eddie sighs, resting back against the cushions. "Obviously." Okay, that's a little harsh, tries again. "Yeah. It kinda sucks." He quirks a brow. "Why are _you_ up?"

"Needed some water." Richie shrugs. "You wanna sleep in my bed? That couch probably isn't doing you any favours."

"It's fine," Eddie says. "I don't wanna kick you out of your own bed."

Richie snorts. "You won't be kicking me out because I just offered it. Come on. You might actually get some sleep."

Eddie _does_ really want some sleep. To be relieved of the pain for at least a few hours. He just kind of wishes it was Violet offering him her bed right now, because the thought of sleeping in Richie's is a little weird.

"Okay," he relents. Sits up, and slowly swings his legs over the edge of the couch. Walking there is going to be quite a task...but Richie is leaning down and hooking an arm beneath Eddie's knees before he even has a chance to plant his feet on the floor.

"Alley oop!" Richie says, his other arm behind Eddie's back, picking him up bridal style. Eddie startles at the sudden movement, and clutches a fist into the fabric of Richie's shirt.

"Some warning would've been nice," Eddie says, as Richie adjusts him more comfortably in his arms.

"Had to do it quick. Like a Band-Aid," Richie says. Eddie smiles despite himself, still gripping Richie's shirt.

"Shut up."

The walk from the lounge to Richie's room is only short, but Eddie still has time to think a plethora of thoughts. One being the fact that Richie is warm, and his grip on Eddie is strong and steady. Another being the fact that when Richie had carried him earlier, he had smelt of smoke and weed. Now, Richie smells of soap and fabric softener and, beneath all that, a distinct scent of _boy_. The kind of scent that comes from musky body spray and the tiniest bit of sweat. Eddie tips his head against Richie's shoulder without even realising it, because he's too busy breathing the smell in and wondering whether he likes it or not.

(He does).

It's only once they've reached Richie's room, and Richie is kicking open his door carefully with his foot, that Eddie thinks to be embarrassed by the fact that he's being carried to his best friend's older brother's bed _in_ said best friend's older brother's arms right now. Because this is weird, right? It's weird.

Sure, Richie had carried Eddie all the way home earlier that day. But that had been  a piggyback, which feels far less...intimate than the way Richie is carrying Eddie right now. And Eddie had been in too much pain to really think anything of it at all.

Richie slowly lowers Eddie onto the bed, and Eddie is thankful that the lights are off, because he'd probably die if Richie could see how red his face currently is.

Richie arranges some pillows under Eddie's injured foot to keep it elevated and then pulls the blanket up around Eddie, right up to his chin. And Eddie lets him, even though he could very much do this all himself, because he's too embarrassed to say anything.

"Good?" Richie asks. He's leant over so Eddie can see his face, even in the dark. Pale and shadowy, his brown eyes flicking between Eddie's own. He still holds the edge of the blanket, where it's pulled up around Eddie's chin, and in his peripheral vision, Eddie can see the way Richie softly thumbs over the fabric.

It's a quiet moment. A soft moment. An odd moment.

"Yeah," Eddie says, in a near whisper. "Thanks. You know. For...for everything." Because he hasn't said that yet, and he really is. Thankful for all Richie's help. He could've left Eddie alone in the Barrens, when all his friends left. But he didn't. Not even when they took his car. He didn't think Eddie wasn't worth the trouble. Never mind the fact that they hardly know each other. Never mind the fact that Eddie goes out of his way to avoid talking to him. He carried Eddie home.

"Sure thing," Richie says, with a crooked smile. He gives Eddie's hair a little pat before pulling away. "Just give me a shout if you need anything."

Eddie watches him cross the room. "Wait," he says, just as Richie opens the door. Richie turns to him. Eddie opens and closes his mouth a few times before he spills the words, "Did you get your car back?"

"Yeah, I did." Eddie's hoping that Richie will continue, will tell him that he also dropped those assholes and will never see them again. But Richie just steps from the room. "Night, Eddie," he says, and pulls the door shut.

 

 

Richie's bed is far more comfortable than the couch.

Eddie falls into a heavy sleep, the kind where he sinks into a dream that feels like reality. So it's a surprise that a bit of scuffling is what wakes up him that morning. He blinks, groggy, squints against the morning sunlight washing over the chaos of Richie's room. It takes a few seconds to determine what exactly the noise is, but then he sees Richie, sorting through the clothes in his cupboard.

He's still wearing his boxers but he's shirtless; Eddie watches the muscles in his back flex as he picks out a t-shirt. Richie looks like such a skinny, lanky thing, but he's surprisingly toned, with fit arms and nice broad shoulders. And Eddie can't stop looking until Richie's bare skin disappears under a shirt.

He closes his eyes hurriedly when Richie pulls on a pair of jeans and turns to leave; doesn't want him to know he was watching. 

Eddie supposes he could sleep again, after the bedroom swings shut, but his eyes decide to travel around the room instead. The floor is covered in clothes and litter and an old pizza box that Eddie wonders has any pizza left in it. The walls are covered in posters, so the room feels crowded, and darker than it actually is. Most of them are of bands that Eddie's never heard of, and posters for horror movies that Eddie's never seen.

But, between a poster for an obscure rock band and The Shining, there's a little handmade poster for Wonder Violet. With the same design Violet had printed onto a t-shirt.

Eddie tries to imagine ten year old Violet making that for twelve year old Richie, but he can't. He certainly can't imagine Violet making that for Richie now. Violet and Richie aren't particularly close; the kind of siblings that would want nothing to do with each other if they weren't related. It's not that they hate each other, or even dislike each other, really. It's just that they're two very different people, have nothing in common but their parents.

Maybe that's because Eddie is thinking of the Richie who smokes with assholes, though. He knows Violet doesn't like that Richie. But, she might like the Richie who gave up his bed for someone he wouldn't even consider a friend, who carried him home.

Eddie thinks he might. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Three weeks later_

 

"...the chocolate and peanut butter combination follows the same principle," Violet is saying, as she stirs the brownie mix. "Salty and sweet just works."

"That's all very interesting, Vi, but I just wanted to know if we could add Reece's cups into the brownies," Richie says, sounding as though he didn't find it very interesting at all. "I didn't need a life lesson."

"Jesus, Richie, if anyone needs a life lesson, it's you," Violet retorts. "Anyway, Eddie found it interesting. Didn't you, Eddie?"

It's a peaceful kind of night. They're in the kitchen, making brownies. Or at least, Violet is. Eddie and Richie are sitting on stools around the kitchen island, watching her.

Eddie's ankle has almost completely healed. It turned it was just a sprain, like Violet had said. That didn't stop his mother from almost having about seven aneurysms when she saw him the following day, however. She'd kept him locked away in his room for almost three weeks, only allowed to leave the house for doctor visits. He'd missed school and everything, despite the fact that he could've gone if his mother had allowed him a pair of crutches.

It had been torture, not seeing Violet. He'd gone over her house as soon as he could, which had been around four days ago, though his mother hadn't let him stay out long. And now he sits happily in her kitchen. Back to normal.

"I loved it," Eddie says now. Richie laughs, gives Eddie a grin that also feels a bit like an eye roll.

" _Sure_ , you did," he teases, nudges Eddie's arm playfully.

"I did. I'm sorry you don't have the intelligence to enjoy it," Eddie teases back.

And, okay, maybe things aren't _completely_ back to normal. He and Richie have been acting sort of like... _friends_ these past couple days. Well, they talk a bit more. Only in passing, because Eddie _is_ here for Violet, but Eddie doesn't try to avoid him anymore. So that allows for nights like this, where the three of them are all together, and Richie is smiling at him, glasses glinting in the kitchen light, and Eddie is trying very hard not to smile back.

"All of our parents' intelligence was given to me," Violet says. "Speaking of, mom's coming home tonight, isn't she?"

"Probably. Give us a taste of that brownie mix, would ya?" Richie leans across the counter, Violet snatches the bowl away.

"Get your grubby hands away from it," she snaps. Richie snorts. Violet smiles sweetly at Eddie. "Do you want to lick the spoon?"

Feeling a bit like a child, but also not really caring, Eddie licks the spoon clean while Violet puts the brownies in the oven. From the corner of his eye, he notices Richie watching him, with an odd sort of expression on his face, and the heat of the oven must be getting to him, because his cheeks are tinted red.

Eddie raises an eyebrow at him. Richie looks away and clears his throat, sliding from his seat.

"Whatever," he says, "I bet your brownies taste horrible anyway, Vi, they don't even have weed in them. I'm out."

"Aww," Violet coos. "Is someone sad they couldn't wick the spwoon? Poor wittle baby."

Richie flips her the bird, but Violet is too busy laughing to care. "Do you want me to look for some Reece's cups?" she asks in jest. "To cheer the wittle baby up?"

Richie folds his arms over his chest. "Yes."

Violet rolls her eyes, but she opens up one of the cupboards, and begins to search through it. She's opened the cupboard full of jars of sauces and spices accidentally, rather than the snack cupboard, but it doesn't really matter, because it's not like she's actually looking for them.

"Hey," Violet says, with a little frown. She leans up on her toes and reaches into the very back of the cupboard. "Who's are these?" She pulls out a bottle of wine, then reaches back in and pulls out a bottle of vodka, reaches back in and pulls out another, another. Until there's six bottles on the counter. Gives Richie a look. "Are these yours?"

"They are now," Richie says, making a grab for one. Violet swats him away.

"There's a shit ton of alcohol here." She furrows her brows at the bottles. "Do you think...?"

" _That's_ what you call a shit ton?" Richie snorts. 

"Shut up, Richie," Eddie says, at the same time Violet says, "shut up." Their eyes meet, and a little amused smile flickers across Violet's face. "We'd make a good Richie-hating duo," she says, lowers her voice, as though that'll make it a secret, despite the fact that Richie is standing literally right there.

"I'm literally right here," Richie says. Violet just laughs. Eddie laughs too, at the little grumpy look at his face. And he's still laughing when the phone rings, and Violet cleans her hands off on a tea towel to answer it, gives the bottles a look as though saying she'll deal with them later. His laughter simmering down to a smug smile as Violet greets her aunt on the phone, and Richie lightheatedly glares at him. His smile fading to nothing when Violet goes silent and then whispers, "no."

There's something in her tone that acts as a vacuum, sucking in every last ounce of noise until they are left in a void of deep, bone rattling silence. Everything is deathly still.

"No," Violet says again, clutching the phone tight against her face. "No, you're...that can't be..." Her breathing quickens, dark stormy eyes stare desperately at the kitchen floor. "No, no, _no."_

"Vi...?" Richie asks, uncertain. He and Eddie share a nervous look. All lightheartedness stripped from them completely. 

"How do you know?" Violet demands into the phone. "No. I don't believe it. How do you know?"

"Violet, what's going on?" Richie tries again. "Who are you talking to?"

Violet stumbles back, leans against the counter, lip quivering. Eddie watches her, can't take his eyes from her, his mouth dry, chest tight, as she bursts into tears.

"No," she sobs. "God, please, _no."_

Violet Tozier. Pristine, perfect Violet Tozier, who lives untouched by the world around her, who's always so composed and level-headed, crumbles before them. Eddie's jaw is a little slack, clutches at the hem of his shorts, he thinks its perhaps one of the most harrowing things he could ever see. 

The phone clatters to floor as she does, her back thumping against the cupboards as she falls onto the tiles.

 _"Violet,"_ Richie demands, though he sounds terrified. _"What the fuck is going on?"_

It's hard for her to answer, because she's breathing so rapidly, choking on her tears. "Mom," she gasps, looks up at him, though she can barely keep her eyes open, they're so full of tears. "She..." A wail escapes her. "A-a cr-ash." Her voice breaks, becomes something shrill. And they all know what's coming. Because what else could it be? What else could make the air feel like this? Could flip a switch so suddenly, and turn pleasant warmth to cruel ice? It doesn't feel real, as Violet opens her mouth, hiccups, lips forming around the words. Eddie wants to cover his ears. It's a heavy dream. A dream that feels like reality. A dream you can't wake up from. _"She didn't make it."_

And the whole world crumbles too.


	2. during

Eddie's always had a weird relationship with death.

His dad died when he was little, so little that he remembers none of it; not his dad nor the funeral nor anything. So it doesn't feel quite...real, when he thinks about it. In fact, to think of his father, and his father's death, is a bit like thinking of one of those planets that exist outside the solar system, or the universe itself. You _know_ it's real, it's there, it's happening, but its hard to conceptualise it: what it is, how it works, what it looks like.

He doesn't really understand it.

And when you don't understand something, it holds no weight in you. Death is such a faraway, floaty idea. Because for him, it's only happened to someone he didn't know, someone who is also a faraway, floaty idea.

It left fear in his mother though. A real fear of death, of it happening again. So she swaddled him up in bubble wrap and banned everything under the sun. _Don't do that, you know it killed a boy once. Don't eat that, it'll give you cancer. Don't touch that, you'll have an allergic reaction, and we'll end up in the ER._

Everything was deadly, everything was out to kill him. But it didn't make him fear death, it just trivialised it. Like when you say something so much it no longer feels like it has any meaning.

He feared illness and injury, because you could feel it, he feared getting lost in the middle of nowhere, or getting kidnapped, because you had to _live_ it, but death...well...what even _happens_ when you die?

 

You leave your two kids broken on the kitchen floor.

 

Eddie joins Violet first. He slips from his stool and rounds the counter carefully, approaches her as though approaching a wild animal. He's uncertain. Scared. But he drops to his knees, the tiles a cold shock to his skin, and wraps his arms around her. Can the feel the way her sobs rack through her body, almost violently so, and he tightens his grip.

Richie stays standing for a very long time.

He doesn't look like Richie. There is no colour in his face, so pale you can almost see right through him, and there is nothing in his eyes. They are so empty. He is so empty. It is the outer-shell of Richie standing there. Everything that makes him _him_ has disappeared somewhere else.

Eddie is so _scared._

"How do you know?" Richie asks. And there is some power in his voice, because denial is a powerful thing, but it still comes out as no more than a croak. Violet buries her head in her hands and moans. "Violet, how do you _know?"_

She doesn't answer. "Are you sure?" Richie continues. "Violet, who told you? What did they say? What were their words exactly. _Violet._ Talk to me."

He's looking for a way out. Like he'll be able to make Violet think over what she was told, and realise she had misheard. That she got it wrong. But it's futile, desperate, and he knows it. Violet whimpers, Eddie presses his fingers in her shoulder, as though that'll ground her somehow. Richie scrubs his hands over his face and then up into his hair, tugs at his curls as his body trembles.

And then he's on the floor, collapses down on the other side of Violet. Wraps an arm around her front, his fingers coming to rest on Eddie's hip, where they tangle themselves into his t-shirt - the three of them huddled together, holding each other, pressed against the kitchen counter - and he cries into his sister's hair.

 

Eddie doesn't see Violet for almost five days after that. Her aunt drives over from out of town to spend some time with her and Richie, and Violet doesn't go to school. Which is all understandable of course, she needs some time off with her family, but Eddie misses her, worries about her, and has to spend lunches with 'their' friends at school without her. It's kind of the worst thing ever.

"Poor thing," says Macie, resting her elbows up on the cafeteria table. She wears a sleeveless top, her skin smooth and tan. "I couldn't imagine going through what she is. I'm very close to my mom, you know." Eddie figures he _should_ know, because Macie never stops talking, so she's probably mentioned it a hundred times, but he doesn't really care. Macie gazes up thoughtfully. "I wonder how Richie's doing. Maybe I should make something for him - for them. Like make them dinner or something. I remember Richie telling me once that he's a big fan of homemade lasagna."

"Richie told me he likes pizza," Abigail says, about as matter-of-factly as her gentle nature allows her.

"Well, they're both Italian, it's all the same thing," Macie says, waving a hand dismissively. The bangles on her arms clink together as she does so. "And I make a really good lasagna, so lasagna it is."

Abigail shrugs. Eddie frowns, wondering when on earth Richie had told them those things.

"Will they even be staying at their house?" Elizabeth asks. "Without their mom there? I feel like they might need to stay somewhere else."

And she's right. Kind of. Violet invites Eddie over on the fifth day, and tells him she's going to spend some time at her aunt's house. Wants to be with her family, wants to get out of the house. She says this as she packs her bags, and Eddie sits on the edge of her bed, feet barely touching the floor, and tries not to think about how grey she looks, the way her fingers quiver.

"Richie's staying here," she adds, an edge to her voice. "I don't know why. I can't convince him to come with us, he's being a real asshole about it. I mean, if there's ever a time that we should be together, it's now. But he refuses to leave."

It looks like there's more she wants to say, jaw tight and brows furrowed, but she's interrupted by her aunt calling, _"Violet?"_ from the living room. Violet presses the tips of her three middle fingers to her forehead, sighs, straightens up and hikes her bag on shoulder. Looks so far from her usual self, bright and sure. Looks like a shadow.

She meets Eddie's gaze.

"Can you keep an eye on him for me?" she asks, voice level but oddly quiet. "On Richie? Just keep him company. Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid. I'll only be gone a couple of weeks. I'll try and check in."

"Okay," Eddie says softly. Because, while that idea is daunting, while it's perhaps the last thing he wants to do, he'll do it. For her.

He wishes she would stay, so he can keep an eye on her, too. So he can be with her. But he knows that's selfish.

She gives him a hug before she leaves, stops by front door. It's only a quick one, and her bag is sort of in the way, so she can only wrap one arm around his shoulders. But he gets both arms up along her back, grips into her shirt near her shoulder blades, and he cherishes that hug more than anything.

She doesn't hug Richie. Richie watches she and Eddie hug from where he leans against the couch, arms crossed over his chest but face expressionless, and he doesn't say anything. She doesn't say anything to him either, but glances up at him as she pulls away from Eddie. Their gazes meet for a heavy moment. And then she turns and walks out the front door, and he turns and walks down the hall.

Eddie is left standing there alone, before he rides back home.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Eddie avoids the Tozier house for three days.

A real dick move, he knows. But it's not like it's _entirely_ intentional, because he still has school and homework and assignments and household chores to worry about. And his mother has been much stricter about letting him out of the house ever since he injured his ankle.

"Oh, are you sure you should be riding your bike?" she fusses, as he clips on his helmet late Saturday morning. Guilt had sat like a rock in his stomach last night, made him feel ill, made it hard to sleep. He can't avoid Richie any longer.

"I'll be fine, ma," Eddie says, the clasp of his helmet tight beneath his chin, pinches the skin a little. He loosens it. "I rode it only a few days ago remember?"

"I know, but you seemed rather sore afterwards," his mother says, expression tight with worry. "I can drive you. You're just going into town aren't you?"

"Yep," Eddie lies, because after all this time, his mother still doesn't know about the Toziers. "But it's probably good to move my ankle a bit. It'll go stiff if I don't." 

His mother's eyes are concerned, searching, she studies him with her lips pressed together. He knows that she's noticed he's been feeling down recently, and that's just another stress, another worry for her, on top of his ankle. Because she cares about him, she really does. Loves him. He just wishes she would love him in a way that would allow him to simply experience it, rather than endure it.

 _At least you have someone caring for you,_ says a voice in his head. _Right now, Richie has no one._

Okay, okay. He's going.

It takes a little while for him to ride to the Toziers', and his ankle starts to hurt quite a bit, but it's enough time for him to talk himself out of his nervousness. And when he arrives, dropping his bike by Richie's beat up car, sun spottting his skin through the trees, he takes a deep breath and marches right up to the front door.

No one answers when he knocks. He tries the handle. It's unlocked.

"You tryna get yourself killed, Richie?" he mutters to himself as the door swings open. Then he pauses. Bad choice of words. You don't really realise how lightly you treat death until you know someone who's dead.

The house is cold and dark. The lights off, curtains drawn. It's so different to the bright, open house he spends his afternoons in. Where the sun drifts lazily through the windows and the TV hums in the background and Violet chatters on while her sewing machine whirs and Richie sings obnoxiously whenever he walks down the hall. This house is full shadows, the furniture only dark shapes before him, the air so empty it prickles his skin like ice.

He moves lightly to Richie's room.

The door is ajar, and low music spills from it. Something slow and sad, much different to the loud, guitar heavy music Richie usually plays. Eddie knocks gently, then pushes the door right open.

Richie sits on his bed, leaning against headboard. One leg stretched out straight in front of him, the other bent at the knee. He wears the exact same outfit Eddie had last seen him in: dark pair of jeans, a red flannel shirt over a black tee. The clothes are rumpled, his curls are flat and his hair is greasy around his scalp, his skin sallow and sickly-looking. He's blankly staring at some cassette tapes in his hands, but he looks up when Eddie enters, and Eddie can see the deeply dark rings beneath his heavy-lidded eyes.

Eddie is sure, then, that Richie has not slept in three days. And, except to perhaps use the bathroom, he has been sitting here, in this position, by himself, for just as long.

Eddie feels like the worst person on the fucking planet.

"Hey," Eddie says.

"Hey," Richie says, voice croaky from lack of use. He clears his throat. Eddie knocks the backs of his fingers lightly against the door. He kind of wants to cry, seeing Richie like this. But mostly he wants to punch himself in the face.

"Did you ride here?" Richie asks. "Your ankle must hurt."

It's obviously an attempt to take the attention off himself, to get Eddie to focus on something other than the sad state he's currently in. But all it does is make Eddie feel worse. Here Richie is, wallowing in grief over his dead mother, and he's worried about Eddie's stupid ankle. Oblivious to the fact that Eddie avoided him for _three days._

"It's fine," Eddie says. Richie nods, gazes down at his hands. He doesn't say anything else, which is odd for him, because words are what Richie's best at, and Eddie is sure that he just doesn't want to talk. Eddie's fine with that. Doesn't feel guilty. Because, after all, Violet hadn't said anything about him needing to talk to Richie, she had just said...

"What are you doing?" Richie asks, as Eddie climbs up onto the bed and sits down next to him.

Eddie gives him a little smile. Pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them. "Keeping you company."

So they sit together, silent, listening to the sad songs crow from Richie's stereo. The air is heavy. The room is grey. Eddie fades into a daydream, and when he comes out the other side of it, his watch reads an hour from when he last checked it, and Richie is asleep.

Eddie doesn't leave straight away, even though he could because Richie will probably be asleep for hours. No, instead he heads into the kitchen and pulls out one of Violet's cookbooks. Tries not to look at the spot by the counter where the three of them had wept. And he makes Richie a meal.

Spaghetti, because he's made it before and the recipe is fairly simple. Plus, he remembers Macie and Abigail saying something about Richie liking Italian food. And Richie looked as though he also hadn't eaten in three days. So Eddie thinks he'll appreciate it.

He spoons some into a bowl - which he covers in tinfoil and stores in the oven, in hopes of keeping it warm so Richie can eat it for dinner - and the rest in some tupperware - which he stores in the fridge, so Richie will have a meal for tomorrow, and maybe even the day after, too. Then he writes a note, which is surprisingly more stressful than he thought, and tiptoes into Richie's room to leave on his bedside.

_There's food in the oven and some leftovers in the fridge. I've never really cooked before so I hope it's not too bad. I tasted it and it seemed alright. Plus I didn't burn it, so it's definitely edible at least._

_See you tomorrow probably - Eddie_

Then, he heads home.

 

 

Richie looks a lot better when Eddie sees him the next evening.

Well, he's still colourless and pasty, looking gaunt in the face. But he's showered, changed into a comfortable pair of sweats and tee, and though he still looks tired, he doesn't look about five seconds from passing out. Some rest and food really does great things.

He's leant against the kitchen counter, eating a bowl of spaghetti. The lights are still off, but the curtains are open, and the pink-orange sunset bathes the room in a soft warm glow.

"Hey," Eddie says as he shuts the front door behind him, still a little breathless from the ride over.

"Hey." Richie swallows a mouthful of spaghetti. "Thanks," he says, lifts the bowl in Eddie's direction. "For this. You really didn't have to."

"It's okay." Eddie shrugs. "No big deal."

"And that note was cute," Richie continues. "Cheered me up a bit."

"Oh...okay." Eddie doesn't remember the note being particularly cute. All he'd written about was the spaghetti. But. Whatever.

Richie's lips quirk, gives him something that would maybe look more like a smile to Eddie if he didn't know that Richie was sad.

"You don't have to be here, either," Richie adds. "I mean, you probably have homework or something. I don't know. Is it a school night?" He squints out the kitchen window as though the setting sun will somehow give him the answer. "I dunno what day it is. But, you get my point. ...If I had one."

Eddie figures that Richie is still sleep deprived, and obviously still grappling with the weight of grief. It leaves him looking lost, a crease between his brows. He stares for a very long time into his spaghetti bowl before he takes another bite.

"Someone has to make you more spaghetti," Eddie replies lightheartedly. He doesn't really feel like telling Richie that he's here per Violet's request. Richie gives him that vaguely sad smile again.

"True. Guess I need you, Eddie Spaghetti." An open-mouthed grin splits across his face as soon as the name leaves his lips, like he's surprised by his own genius.

"Please don't tell me you're gonna start calling me that," Eddie says, though he too is amused.

"I'm afraid I can't let a beautiful thing like that go to waste."

Eddie pretends to scowl at him. But in all honesty, if it makes Richie smile like that, he doesn't really mind.

The two of them watch TV together, feet kicked up on the coffee table, for a few hours, before Eddie leaves. And the next evening, the two of them listen to Richie's music together, legs stretched out on Richie's bed, and then Eddie leaves. On the third evening, after they spend a few hours watching movies together, curled up on the rug, Richie stops Eddie just as he's about to leave.

He says, from where he's still sat on the floor, "Hey, you're here because of Violet, aren't you?"

It's not a cold accusation, or an angered statement, or anything like that. It's just a question.

"Yeah," Eddie says. "She asked me to keep you company."

Richie presses his lips together and pushes them up towards his cheek, but his expression is only thoughtful. "Okay."

"She didn't think it was a good idea for you to be by yourself," Eddie continues.

Richie turns to gaze at the TV. "Okay."

Eddie nods, but it doesn't matter, because Richie doesn't look back at him. Instead, he continues to stare at the TV with his lips pressed together, and it's almost like Eddie isn't there at all anymore.

"Okay," Eddie echoes. And then he leaves.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 "Have you heard from Violet?" Elizabeth asks him the following day at lunch. Abigail and Macie are chattering away happily on the other side of them. Elizabeth looks over at Eddie with those wide brown eyes of hers. They always make her look a little frightened.

"No," Eddie replies. He always sits near the phone whenever he's home, in case she'll call. His mother always wonders what he's doing. She had snapped at him last night, because she thought he had a secret girlfriend he was waiting for calls from. Eddie figures it'd be easier to just tell his mother the truth. About being friends with Violet. About how he wants to be there for her right now. But his father's passing messed with his mother so badly, made her so terrified of death, that she probably wouldn't even like Eddie trying to help his friend because her mother is dead.

"She called me last night," Elizabeth says. "She didn't sound too good but she was still Violet, you know. She called because she found an old friendship bracelet at her aunts' house.. We used to have matching ones when we were ten but she lost hers. She wanted to know if I still had mine. It was weird, though, she didn't say anything about her mom. I think maybe she wanted to just have a conversation about something a little less painful for a change."

She watches Macie and Abigail chat. Eddie digs his fingernails into his thigh and tries very hard to swallow down his jealousy. Now is _not_ the time to feel jealous.

"That's great," he says, jaw tight. He doesn't even know if that reply makes sense. It could be rude. The wrong thing to say. He doesn't know. He just wishes Violet had called him instead.

The thing about only having one friend, and that friend being as amazing as Violet, is that it's incredibly difficult to share them.

 

  
That evening, he finds Richie smoking out the back on an old lawn chair, watching the sky turn a dark shade of purple and a honeyed shade of orange. Eddie flops down onto the lawn hair next to him, it creaks beneath his weight, and inhales the crisp scent of the trees around them. He chokes on Richie's cigarette smoke.

"You can try and guilt trip me all you want with that coughing," Richie says, exhales smoke between his teeth. "But I'm not gonna put the cig out."

"I'm not trying to guilt trip you, I'm just not used to breathing that shit down my throat," Eddie says bitterly, wiping the back of his mouth. Regret immediately spikes through his heart and he goes still. His anger from earlier still lingers, simmers beneath his skin - can't stop thinking of Violet and Elizabeth, can't stop the foul jealously that settles over stomach - and it had accidentally slipped out.

He fumbles out a "sorry", feeling stupid, and then watches nervously for Richie's reaction. Richie inhales so deeply around his cigarette that his cheeks hollow.

"You don't have to be here," Richie says. Smoke billows around his face.

Eddie frowns. "Violet doesn't think it's a good idea for you to be by yourself, remember...?"

"So, what? You just do whatever Violet tells you?" Richie interrupts, an edge to his voice. Eddie flounders for a moment under Richie's dark gaze, caught by surprise. "You can leave, Eddie," Richie adds coldly, gazing back out into the trees. "I won't tell her."

Here's what Eddie should do: tell Richie he _wants_ to be here, tell Richie that Violet wanted him to here to keep Richie company because he's her bother and she really cares about him.

Here's what he does: hits his spine against the back of the lawn chair, studies Richie with his tongue poking into his cheek, and says, "You're not okay."

Richie looks both surprised and affronted.

"You're not okay and that's okay," Eddie continues. The words kind of spill out of him. "You're allowed to be sad. You're allowed to be fucking devastated. But, please, don't be angry."

"What are you on about...?" Richie cuts in, angrily.

"My dad died when I was little. I was too young to remember anything. But my mom...she lived right through it. And it made her so _mad_. She hated everything, the whole world. And she became scared of it because she hated it. I guess she figured it wasn't fair, or maybe she wanted to place the blame on something, so she placed it on everything." Eddie breathes in. "She never stopped being angry," he says. "It destroyed her."

The words leave Eddie's mouth and he sits on them and wonders if he should even be saying anything at all. But they're therapeutic for him, in an odd way, in a way he thought he'd never need. And some part of him really does think Richie should hear them.

Richie smokes and smokes and smokes. Until his cigarette's burnt out. He says nothing. It looks as though he's disappeared far inside himself, and Eddie wonders if he'll ever come out.

Richie drops his cigarette to the ground and crushes it beneath his foot. "I'm sorry about your dad," is what he finally says.

He gets up and leaves.

Eddie sits in silence, puts his thumbnail between his teeth and figures that speaking was a bad idea. He's only here to keep Richie _company_ after all, he should stick to that.

But at some point that really should change.

And it does.

The following night no less.

Eddie had debated even turning up to the Tozier's house at all - they'd left on such a tense note last night - so it's already getting dark by the time he finally decides to ride over.

When he enters, the TV's on and the house is empty. Richie is nowhere to be found.

It shouldn't be that odd, but Richie has been so home-bound recently that not seeing him glued to the couch or stretched out on his bed sends Eddie into a mild fit of panic.

_He's off doing something reckless...he knew Eddie would turn up so he left to avoid him...he's injured and alone somewhere..._

Or, he's completely fine and just needed to get out of the house, but Eddie has little space for rationality amidst all his anxiety. So, instead of just heading home and checking on Richie again tomorrow, he stays and paces the loungeroom until the sound of the front door opening sends him jolting out of his own skin.

Richie's dressed in dark clothing, a black hoodie despite the fact that it's fairly warm outside, and he reeks of a smokey smell worse than cigarettes. Weed.

"Where were you?" Eddie blurts, as soon as Richie steps foot inside. Richie glances up, doesn't look surprised to see him. He spends some time shutting the door and no time replying. "Where you with those assholes?" Eddie pushes.

"Jesus, Eddie, what are you, my wife?" Richie snaps. He stalks towards the kitchen and throws his car keys on the counter. "I just left the house for a bit, chrissakes. What do you care? You're just my little sister's friend who's forced to be here."

Eddie hesitates by the couch, a retort on his lips. He swallows it down as he watches Richie place his hands on the island counter. He leans his weight against them, straightens his arms, raises his shoulders, and hangs his head. Stomach caves in as he inhales deeply. The kind of stance someone would hold if they're troubled.

"Fuck," he hisses under his breath. Glances up at Eddie. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that I just..." His voice softer now, but a little rough around the edges. "How..." He rakes one hand through his hair, ducks his head, inhales again. "How do I make this hurt less?"

Eddie so desperately wishes he knew.

"It's such bullshit," Richie mumbles to the counter. And it is, god it _is_. Why do things like this have to happen? Why couldn't they have ended that night with the smell of warm brownies in the oven, and Violet humming as she and Eddie cleaned up in the kitchen, while Richie made bad jokes instead of helping? Sometimes Eddie dreams that that's what happened. It's always such a shame to wake up.

"I guess..." Eddie begins, breaks off nervously when Richie looks at him. "I guess it just takes time. Like...like when I hurt my ankle. I know, I know that's nowhere near the level of this, but it's kind of the same principle I guess. All I could do was wrap it up in bandage and wait until it healed itself."

"Such passive bullshit," Richie murmurs, but there's no fire in his words.

"Not if you wrap it up in a bandage," Eddie points out. Richie laughs a little without much humour.

"And how exactly do I wrap all this up in a bandage?" he asks.

"I think family can act a bit like a bandage, you know, being with people you love," Eddie says carefully. Richie locks his jaw, stares down at his hands, obviously thinking of Violet. "Friends, too. And, well...hugs can help."

The corner of Richie's mouth lifts. "Hugs?"

Eddie doesn't think it's _that_ ridiculous, because he knows that any sort of physical contact can be healing. Like when Violet had put his head in her lap. "Yeah. Hugs. They're good." And then he gets an idea that is probably very bad. "I could give you a hug."

He has to stop himself from wincing, expecting rejection. Richie just stares at him, in a very odd but serious way.

He says, gently, "okay."

A pause. Eddie's surprised, but he crosses slowly over to the kitchen. Okay. Richie just watches him. Okay. He stands before Richie feeling awkward, because he's not sure whether he should hug him first or what he should even do with his arms like does he wrap them around Richie's middle? That what he does when he hugs his mother but he's not _hugging_ his mother and...

Richie continues to stare at him in that odd way. And then he leans down and wraps his arms around Eddie's waist, pulls Eddie right up against him, and buries his face in Eddie's neck.

O...oh.

Even with Richie bent down, Eddie has to reach up a bit on his toes to properly wrap his arms around Richie's shoulders. Richie just hugs him tighter as he does so, almost lifting Eddie off the ground.

Richie smells of smoke. But he's warm. And firm beneath Eddie's arms, beneath Eddie's chest.

He holds Eddie so closely to him, it's like he's truly trying to find a cure to his sadness in Eddie's embrace.

"Thanks," Richie says hoarsely when he pulls away. His eyes are red at the edges. They've been hugging for so long that Eddie feels like he's lost a limb once there's space between them. "You know, you'd make a pretty good therapist."

Eddie shrugs, bashful.

Richie smiles, squeezes Eddie shoulder. "I'm gonna go take a shower. Wash off the smell of weed. I thought it would help but. Hugging is so much better than smoking."

"I think talking could really help, too," Eddie says.

Richie squeezes his shoulder again. "See? A good therapist."

And Richie ends up talking. Over the following week, Richie tells Eddie stories from his childhood. That time he fell from a tree out the back and broke his arm, that time he and a friend had tried to spend a night in the woods and had ran home the second they'd heard a strange noise ("it had just been an owl," Richie laughs), that time he'd found an injured baby bird on the way to school and had kept it in his backpack during class. None of his stories involve his mother, or Violet, but remembering all these moments seems to make Richie happy, any form of chatter brings him alive, and that's good enough for Eddie.

Eddie talks, too. His stories aren't nearly as interesting as Richie's, but Richie always listens so intently you'd think they were.

There's no more hugging, though, because neither of them are sure how to initiate it. But sometimes their arms brush while their cooking together, or cleaning the dishes together, or Richie nudges Eddie with his shoulder, or Eddie taps Richie on the arm while they're sorting through Richie's room together. (Richie had decided that _doing things_ was probably another good way to ease his sadness. "Who's the therapist now?" he said when he suggested it, looking quite pleased with himself).

One night, though, Eddie wakes with something warm and solid, but slightly pointy, beneath one side of his face. The TV murmurs on gently; when he opens his eyes, it strikes him with blurry colours in a darkened room. Then, the thing beneath him shifts, just a little, and Eddie's gaze drifts. He glances downwards at a hand. The fingers are too long, knuckles just a bit too prominent, the curve of the wrist too veiny, for it to be his hand. It's Richie's hand. And it grips Richie's knee, washed out by the glow of the TV, fingers pressed into the fabric of his dark jeans. It is nudged against Eddie's own knee.

And then Eddie realises that the thing beneath him is Richie's shoulder.

He jolts upright, and it leaves his sluggish mind dizzy. Richie looks startled by the sudden movement.

"Sorry," Eddie mumbles, rubbing at one bleary eye. He realises then, how close they had been sitting, because even though he feels as though he's jumped back a far bit, there's still barely an inch of space between them. The impression of Richie lingers all over his left side; it buzzes at the edges. The space between them feels so _charged._

"It's okay," Richie says, settling. "I don't mind." Eddie thinks of Richie's hand and how tense it had been and he's not sure that's true. Richie grins; his glasses reflect the lights of the TV. "You snore when you sleep." Eddie opens his mouth. "It's cute."

Eddie closes his mouth, embarrassed. "Shut up."

Richie continues to grin as he checks his watch, hidden amidst all the bracelets and leather bands on his wrist. "It's late," he says. "Want me to drive you home?"

"Nah, it's fine," Eddie says, gets up and stretches. "I can ride home."

"I shouldn't have phrased that as a question," Richie says, also getting to his feet. He pats his back pockets. "What I meant to say was..." he pulls out his car keys, "I'm driving you home."

"I'm fine," Eddie says again, and it's more an automatic response than anything.

"I know," Richie says, gives him a little smile, pinches Eddie cheek. "I just want to make sure you get home safe."

The lighthearted tone doesn't fool Eddie. He nods. And he lets Richie drive him home. 

They don't talk about Eddie falling asleep on him. Because what's there to talk about?

 

 

* * *

 

 

 The funeral is five days after that.

Eddie spends the night before it rummaging through Richie's closet with Richie, in search for some nice clothes for him to wear. When they finally do find some, the clothes are wrinkled almost beyond repair, and he and Richie spend a long time trying to figure out how iron them. (Richie nearly burns his hand by tapping it against the iron to check if its hot, and Eddie does the same thing only a few minutes later, despite Richie warning him not to touch it).

It's a very different night to all the other nights they've recently spent together. First of all, the TV is off, so the house feels dark and quiet, and Richie can't bring himself to eat anything, so there's no smell of dinner cooking, and there's very words shared between them.

They collapse onto the couch, tired after the whole ironing ideal. Sit in silence until Eddie checks his watch, figures he should get going.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he tells Richie, halfway through getting to his feet.

"Eddie," Richie blurts. Twists the leather bands around his wrists. He looks like he's psyching himself up. Breathes in. Out. "Can I....have another hug?"

He glances at Eddie nervously without lifting his head. Eddie wonders how long Richie has been waiting to ask him that.

"Yeah, 'course, Richie," Eddie whispers.

Relief eases Richie's shoulders, turns so he's sitting sideways on the couch, facing Eddie. He looks nervous, but he's looked nervous all night. It's his mother's funeral tomorrow, for chrissake. Eddie thinks he deserves ten hugs. But Richie only asks for one. And it's a lot like their first one. Richie wraps his arms around Eddie's waist, pulls him in until their chests are touching, and buries his face deeply into Eddie's shoulder. And Eddie wraps his arms around Richie's shoulders but, when he feels Richie tremble against him, he twists his fingers into the curls on the nape of Richie's neck.

He's not quite sure how long they sit there, holding each other. Richie holds Eddie so tightly to him it's like he's trying to sink into Eddie's skin. Eddie's not sure they'll ever be able to pull apart.

"I don't want to go tomorrow," Richie mumbles, into the spot where Eddie's neck meets his shoulder. Warm breath grazes along Eddie's bare skin, makes him shiver.

"You have to," Eddie whispers.

"I know," Richie pulls back, but only to gently nose at that spot. "But I wish I could just stay here. We could listen to music or something and pretend none of this ever happened."

"We'll do that afterwards," Eddie promises. "We can watch some shitty TV."

Richie moves back, releasing Eddie from his grip. He fixes his glasses, gives Eddie a small smile.

"You know," he says. Eddie realises that Richie kept one hand on his waist, and he pinches Eddie's hip a little. "I should really thank Violet for telling you to keep me company."

 

 

The funeral is at a funeral home. The room is small and white. Eddie, wearing his Sunday best, sits in one of the middle pews, next to Elizabeth and her family, and stares at the back of Violet's head.

She and Richie sit together in the front row. Violet, with her back straight, Richie, with his hunched over. Violet, with her hair sleek and straight, her black dress crisp and tailored, Richie, with his curls a mess, his shirt still a little wrinkled around the sleeves. They have left a considerable gap between them.

Violet gives a speech. Her eyes are watery and her lips quiver but she speaks clearly. Holds the words on a piece of paper in front of her but doesn't use it, because she has rehearsed this until the words flow free and coherent, perfected. It is just as Eddie imagined her at his own funeral: composed. Her exterior cracks, however, at her final words. As she looks over at the casket, and, in a moment that feels private, whispers _I love you, mom_. There's not a dry eye in the room. Eddie feels a lump rise in his throat. Violet covers her face as she steps down from the podium, but she doesn't hide the tears dripping from her jaw.

Richie gives a speech next. And he cries the whole way through it. Jumbles up his words, pauses to rub at his nose with a tissue, takes off his glasses and digs at his red eyes with the heel of his hand. He tries to tell a joke at some point, something lighthearted about his and his mother's relationship, and the laughter that follows is quiet and damp. Eddie laughs while he wipes tears from his eyes. But it's a nice a moment.

The burial is hot, because it's a warm, sunny day, and they are all in dark clothing. Eddie has to wait in the sun for a while to speak to Violet, because she seems to be constantly swarmed by people giving her and Richie their condolences. At one point, it's just Abigail, Macie and Elizabeth standing with Violet and Richie, under the shade of a tree, and Eddie is about to join them until he sees Elizabeth wrap Violet up in a hug, and Abigail and Macie stand on either side of Richie, rubbing soothingly into his arms and shoulders. Eddie suddenly decides he can wait.

Richie leaves the group of girls first. He stops just as he's about to pass by Eddie, grabs Eddie's wrist and lowers himself to speak in Eddie's ear.

"Don't forget we're watching shitty TV tonight," he murmurs. His thumb traces circles into Eddie's skin.

He gets called away by a family member before Eddie can reply, gives Eddie a sombre, closed-mouth smile as he leaves. His eyes are still red and puffy. Really looks like he's in desperate need of some mindless shitty sitcoms.

Violet waves Eddie over once she's finally alone.

"Hey," she says. Pulls him in for a hug. She nowhere near holds Eddie as tightly as Richie does, and the hug doesn't last for half as long. Eddie feels weird for thinking that but he just can't help but notice it.

"Your speech was beautiful," Eddie tells her.

"Thanks." Violet gives him something like a smile, pokes his shoulder. "It was weird not seeing you everyday."

 _Tell me about it._ Still, Eddie can't help but think about the fact that Violet hadn't call him, not once, even though she called Elizabeth, even though she said she would.

"Are you coming back soon?" Eddie asks.

She nods. "Soon." Her fingers are still a little trembly as she brushes her sleek, black hair from her face. "Thanks for keeping an eye on Richie while I was gone. I know you had to take time out of your day to do that so I really appreciate it. You don't need to do it anymore, though."

And that's a bit...weird. A weird thing to say. Eddie bites back a frown. "It's fine, really. I don't mind."

"I know." Violet is still smiling, albeit sadly. "But you don't have to worry about it anymore, okay?"

The frown slips from Eddie's restraints. "O...okay."

"Okay," Violet echoes. She brings him in for another hug, and it lasts for much longer this time. Eddie breathes in the sweet scene of her hair, and it rinses out the unease held in his chest.

When they pull away, Eddie notices Richie watching them. He looks too far away to have heard what Violet had said, but Eddie still wonders if he had.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 "Eat up, Eddie dear, it's good for you," his mother says. She taps at his plate with her butter knife. "I made the broccoli just how you like it."

Eddie is changed out his of nice clothes, wears now his usual shorts and tee. He is sitting at the dinner table with his mother. She has made steamed vegetables and meat cooked so well it's like eating a brick.

"I'm not very hungry," Eddie grumbles, stabs at his peas with his fork.

"Well, you did go to a funeral today, sweetie. I told you that it would drain you. And how did you know Maggie Tozier, again? You said she worked at the school."

"Yeah," Eddie lies. But it's not Maggie Tozier that's the problem, though he has been very sad about her, too. It's her children. Because Eddie had promised Richie that he would see him tonight, and then he had also promised Violet that he wouldn't.

Eddie figures that he should just go, because if Violet's still with her aunt then she'll never know, right?. But what if she's _not_ with her aunt? What if she's home now? What if she comes home halfway through Richie and Eddie watching shitty sitcoms? Would she be mad? Eddie doesn't think he could handle Violet being mad at him.

Why doesn't Violet want Eddie to see Richie anyway? Because that was what it seemed like. Like she wanted Eddie to stay away from him. They are so far from the days where Violet told Eddie not to talk to Richie in the car. They've been through so much together now, are such a solid part in each other's lives. It doesn't seem right. And why would Violet suddenly want Eddie to stay away from Richie when she was the one who asked him to keep him company in the first place?

 _No_. No. What's he thinking? Violet was trying to be nice, take a weight off Eddie's back. She obviously just felt bad about leaving him to take care of her brother. There's no big conspiracy here. 

His mother is chattering on about how there was _"no real reason for him to go to Maggie's funeral if she was only someone who worked at his school"_ and Eddie wishes that she would shut up. He doesn't want to hear anymore about Maggie's funeral, because it just makes his stomach hollow, and a lump rise in his throat. He doesn't want to hear how he shouldn't have gone, he doesn't want to hear that he looks tired, that he looks sad, that he needs to eat his veggies. He wants to get out of here. He wants to watch shitty TV with Richie.

"I'm going out tonight," he tells his mother.

"You're always out, Eddie," his mother sighs. "I get worried."

"I like spending time with my friends." Eddie shrugs. "I like having friends."

He always guilts her with that line. She sighs again, presses two fingertips to her temple, and relents. He eats all his veggies to please her.

 

 

It's dark by the time Eddie pulls up at the Tozier house, but still warm. He drops his bike on the front lawn, wipes the sweat from his forehead. Nervous. But he shouldn't be nervous he shouldn't be...even if Violet is here...she won't be angry, right? There's no reason for her to be...

He knocks twice on the front door before he opens it. It's always unlocked nowadays, so he can get in.

Richie is on the couch, with his elbows on his thighs and his head in his hands. Doesn't hear the door open so Eddie clears his throat. Richie startles, jumps to his feet and whips around.

"Eddie," he breathes.

He's in total disarray. Hair sticking up all over the place, from where he's run his fingers through it, glasses askew, tie hanging loose around his neck. His white shirt has come half untucked, and his black pants are creased all over.

"I thought you weren't coming," Richie says. Takes off his glasses to rub at his eye with the heel of his palm. Eddie is certain, then, that Richie overhead his and Violet's conversation. Guilt has an unpleasant taste.

"Sorry I got here so late. I got caught up with my mom," Eddie replies. Richie nods, still rubbing at his eye. He looks distracted, distressed, like he has a million heavy thoughts building up in his head.

"Today fucking sucked," he mumbles. "All of it. Everything...all the time...fuck, I don't know. The only thing that kept me going was the thought of sitting on this cheap old couch with you. God, I was so fucking worried you wouldn't come. Violet...she ruins everything."

A little displeased noise leaves Eddie throat before he can stop it. Richie drops his hand from his face and studies him with bleary eyes.

"Sorry, you don't like hearing she's not a perfect person, don't you? You just do anything she asks without question, because you think she's so perfect. Well, she's not. She really fucking isn't. No one is. Especially in this family. We're all a bunch of fuck ups."

"Richie..."

"Do you know how my mom died, Eddie?" Richie interrupts, the words now tumbling from him, a river too fierce be to stopped. "She was drunk. She was driving home and she hit a tree because she was drunk. Because she was an alcoholic. Was so deeply depressed that she tried to drown it all out with a bottle. And I had no idea." He exhales a shuddery breath. "All this time...I thought she was out working. Not drinking. I knew that she was depressed, well, at least...I thought she might be...but I didn't know about her drinking problem...or any of it. I only found out once she was dead."

All at once, Eddie remembers Violet finding those bottles of alcohol right before she got the call. His stomach rolls over. Richie pauses to run his fingers through his hair, tug furiously at his curls.

His voice goes quiet, scratchy. "No one ever helped her," he whispers. "So she turned to alcohol. I...I could've helped her..."

"Richie..." Eddie tries again.

"I always thought something was wrong but I never said anything. I never said anything." He's crying now, voice wobbly, thick with tears. Pulls at his hair so hard it almost comes out in clumps. "I just ignored it. I pushed it all away because I didn't _want_ anything to be wrong. God, I'm so fucking stupid. I could've helped her...I could've stopped this..."

"Richie," Eddie says a third time, this time helplessly so. Richie looks up him with damp cheeks and swollen eyes.

He says, with all the brokeness of a child who has lost his mother, "I miss her."

And, _god_ , Eddie wishes he could bring her back. Wishes he could fix this. Wishes they never got that stupid call. Wishes, wishes, wishes.

But there's no point wishing. So he does something that had been done to him, because he has such limited knowledge of what to do in a situation like this, so he has to go off of some sort of relevant experience. He crosses the room until he's right in front of Richie, then he grabs Richie's arm and gently pulls him onto the couch. Richie moves pliantly as Eddie settles himself beside him, tugs Richie over until his head is resting on Eddie's lap. Eddie's short hike up as he does so, so he can feel Richie's tear-stained skin, wet and slightly warm, against his own, Richie's curls tickling his thighs. But he doesn't mind.

Neither of them say anything. Richie cries softly. Eddie puts his fingers in Richie's hair. And he works carefully at untangling the knots, at shaking out the kinks, at raking his fingernails lightly against Richie's scalp, because he knows that feels good.

Richie lifts his head up, only for a moment, to take his glasses off. And then he settles back onto Eddie's lap. And he nuzzles into Eddie's thighs. And cries until there's nothing more, breathing evening out until Eddie wonders if he's fallen asleep.

"It's gonna be okay," Eddie murmurs, brushing Richie's hair back so it fans out over his thigh. "Not right now, and you're allowed to hurt right now, but at some point. It'll be okay. 

"Thank you," Richie whispers, and the fact he's awake startles Eddie. Richie brings a hand up near his face and caresses his fingers against Eddie's thigh. "For everything. Thank you, Eddie."

"Of course," Eddie replies, softening once more. "You're my friend."

And he is. Eddie's friend. Because how can they go through all this and not be friends? If Eddie's honest, he thinks he and Richie became friends when Eddie sprained his ankle. That now they have transcended simple friendship. Now, Eddie cares for Richie in a way similar to the deep-rooted way he cares for Violet.

He feels Richie's little smile, rather than sees it. And he certainly feels the way Richie turns his head and kisses Eddie's thigh. Lips soft in the way they brush against Eddie's skin. It only lasts a moment, but it sends a spike that jolts up towards his stomach, makes it flip over, before it shoots through his heart.

A gasp gets trapped behind Eddie's teeth. He doesn't let it escape. Doesn't say anything. Because if there's anything this whole experience has taught him, it's that people do odd things when they're sad.

"I like the sound of that," Richie murmurs.

Eddie brushes a curl that has fallen over Richie's forehead.

He whispers, "Me too."

 

Richie Tozier is Eddie's Kaspbrak's second best friend.


	3. after

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u all so much for the response on the second chapter omg i was so overwhelmed and grateful and just...thank u thank u thank for all the lovely comments like not to be cheesy but it rlly means the world to me
> 
> also. i planned this to be a 3 part fic but. this chapter would've just been Waay too long, i mean, it's still way too long, but like... it would've taken 10 years to update so i decided to split it. which sorta ruins my format but oh well. a _lot_ happens in this chap so it feel right to not let it keep going.

_Six Months Later_

 

Violet Tozier has a habit of making people feel safe.

Not in a purposeful way. She is not a protector; does not live her life guiding people from danger. But it exudes her; the way her chin lifts, her careful, well-kept manner. Violet Tozier is the earth, steady and constant, the ground you fall to your knees on, press your lips to, after you have spent a rocky night on the water, after you have dipped and hurtled through the air.

Eddie finds comfort in Violet more than anything else.

But now, the earth is cracked.

Here's the thing, you don't expect life to go back to normal after death, because it never really does. But you certainly _try_ for normalcy. Like, you make popcorn on the stove and watch old movies, and you go to bed at a reasonable time, and you sit in Violet's room and poke fun at bad designs in her fashion magazines, and you don't let life become a 'before' and 'after' because you try not to let after become too different from before.

But Violet struggles with this normalcy. And the Violet that feels safe becomes the Violet that feels unpredictable. This Violet spends a lot of time sleeping, and then a lot of time sewing, and then a lot of time avoiding her house, and most of her time avoiding her brother.

Most weekends, she will be at her aunt's house. Most weekdays, she alternates between Elizabeth's, Abigail's, and Macie's houses. She's never at Eddie's house, because his mother would have a meltdown, but she still spends time with Eddie.

There's no routine, though. Not anymore. Each day is different. Or sometimes a whole week will be the same. You just never know.

 _Let's go shopping after school,_ she'll write, on a note she hands to him in the middle of class, and so they'll wander through the stores in town after school. Or, _"Come with me to Macie's on Wednesday,"_ she'll say, voice strained from the books she carries to her locker, and so they'll sit on Macie's bed - Eddie, with his eyes stinging from the strong scent of perfume, Violet, with her eyes glazed over from the thoughts she chases in her head - on Wednesday.

They do this and that. Jumping from one thing to the other. Wander through the Barrens and skim rocks over the water, wander through the trees behind her house and carve their initials into the trees, sit on the floor of Elizabeth's bedroom and cross and uncross their legs, because they can't sit still.

Violet is running from something that cannot be run from.

It's worse when they're at home, because her mother is _everywhere._ In the photos on the mantel, in the bottles tucked away in the fridge, in the cosmetics left in the cupboard behind the bathroom mirror. Eddie and Violet spend their time in her room, just as they usually do, but Violet really throws herself into her sewing like anything else. It's a distraction, to be picking out patterns and fabrics, pinning together the pieces, poking the string through the needle.

Eddie likes to help. He's getting pretty good at the basics, which usually involves kneeling on Violet's floor and peircing pins through fabric, or sewing straight lines with the sewing machine. Most of the time, though, he lounges on Violet's bed and talks to her while she works. So she doesn't disappear too far inside herself.

"...we can't have a band though because we don't have a garage to practise in. That's, like, the basis for all teenage bands - ow."

Violet leans back, pulls the pins she's holding between her teeth. "Sorry, did I stab you?"

"Just pricked me a little," Eddie replies. He almost lowers his arm, to rub the spot near his hip, but remembers Violet's strict instructions to keep his arms held up straight either side of him.

Today, Violet is making a Princess Leia costume ("because, objectively, she's the best Star Wars character," she had said), with the intention of giving it to Abigail. Not that Abigail has asked for it, or is even aware of it's being made; Violet just knows that Abigail likes Star Wars.

Violet's been really into making costumes recently, because they're usually pretty challenging, in a stimulating sort of way, and her brain's too tired to be creative and original.

Eddie's being her model. Because, as he shamefully has to admit, he's around the same height as Abigail.

"I'll try to be more careful," Violet promises. She leans back in. "Continue." She puts the extra pins back between her teeth.

"Okay," says Eddie. "Anyway, I'm pretty sure jamming out in a garage is the pinnacle of the teenage band experience..."

The door bursts open.

"Hey, has anyone seen my car keys...whoa, Eddie Spaghetti. Looking good."

Richie stands in the doorway, hand still on the handle, wearing one of his dumb hawaiian shirts and an even dumber grin. Eyes raking Eddie up and down. Usually, Eddie would be happy to see him. But Eddie is wearing a long, white, billowy, Princess Leia-style dress right now, so it is not one of the times.

"Get out of here," Eddie says, can't help the way his cheeks burn. Richie looks as though all his Christmases have come at once. "And if you're looking for your car keys, they're probably up your ass."

Violet, who would usually have told Richie to fuck off by now, but hasn't on account of the pins in her mouth and her intense focus on not stabbing Eddie, snorts appreciatively at that.

 _"Zing._ Princess Leia: queen of sass. You _are_ Princess Leia, right? All you need are the....little cinnamon bun things on either side of your head," Richie says, making circles with his fingers just above his ears. "Always thought they looked cute. And tasty. If you pretend it's not her hair and actually real cinnamon buns."

"Anything would look tasty if you pretended it was a cinnamon bun," Eddie points out.

"Shit, you're right." Richie says. Eddie wishes he would stop grinning so widely, and that his wide eyes would stop falling to Eddie's feet and then roaming back up again.

Violet turns to him, pulls the pins from her mouth, and says, "Car keys are probably in the pockets of the jeans your wore yesterday. Or up your ass. Now, shut the door, and fuck off."

Eddie very much loves Violet.

Richie raps on the door with his knuckles, gaze drifting thoughtfully, and nods. "Oh, you're right. I'll make sure to check both places, though, just in case." Just before he bursts from the door with all the same rigorous energy he used to burst through it, he locks eyes with Eddie and gives him a two fingered salute. "See you later, princess."

Then he's gone.

"Asshole," Eddie grumbles. But he grumbles it with all the fondness one would use if they were speaking about their best friend.

While things with Violet are different, things with Richie are very nearly completely the same.

Eddie comes over on the weekends, in the evenings, while Violet's usually at her aunts' house, and he and Richie kick back on the couch, eat the popcorn they made (and probably burnt) on the stove, and marathon movies. They listen to music, too, in Richie's room. On Richie's bed. And sometimes they'll cook dinner together (and probably burn that too).

There are some differences though. Like now, while they're on the couch, Richie will stretch out and put his feet in Eddie's lap. Like Violet does. But, unlike Violet, Richie will sometimes crawl across the couch to Eddie, yawn _"I'm tired,"_ and collapse with his head on Eddie's thighs. And, when they're in Richie's room, Richie will compile cassette tapes full of music he wants to share with Eddie, and say things like, "this song makes me think of you". And Eddie makes a mixtape for himself, full of the songs he's surprised to find he likes.

Eddie hasn't told Violet. It feels weird keeping it from her, but...well, he doesn't know. It probably wouldn't be too hard to say, "hey, Violet, me and Richie watch TV together sometimes when you're gone." In fact, the more he thinks about it, the easier it seems. But at the same time, the more he thinks about it, the more he gets inexplicably stressed. So...there's that.

 _You don't have to worry about it anymore,_ okay? she had said, and it had sounded a whole lot like, _I don't want you to spend anymore time with Richie._

This is because Violet still thinks of Richie as the Richie who smokes weed with assholes, Eddie is becoming sure of it now. But Richie is so far from being that person.

Like, that weekend, he and Eddie are watching movies together, as they usually do. And the room is dark, and it's getting a little cold outside, so they have blankets draped over their laps. And Eddie's eyes are fluttering open, because he had fallen asleep.

On Richie's shoulder no less.

Eddie doesn't jolt away like he did last time. Instead, he gives himself a moment to appreciate the warmth of Richie's sweater pressed against his cheek. As the blur of colours comes into the focus, the sounds of the TV tuning into something coherent, Eddie sinks into the sensation of being pressed up against another person. Against Richie. It's such a peaceful feeling.

And, when he slowly pulls away, rubbing at his eyes, Richie smiles softly at him - in a way that makes Eddie feel warm, like he's sipped mouthfuls of sugary hot cocoa - and murmurs, "Hey, sleepyhead."

"Mmm," Eddie hums sleepily. He rubs his eyes. "What time is it?"

"It's only eleven thirty," Richie replies. Eddie runs his fingers through his hair. He has let it grow out a bit, and it curls over his ears and the nape of his neck, a little less styled and a little more wild. Richie tugs playfully at one of those curls now. "Was the movie boring you?"

"I can't even remember which movie we're watching," Eddie mumbles. Richie laughs, pulls himself to his feet and stretches. Arms folded above his head, twists his back. His shirt lifts as he does so, the glow of the TV washes over the smooth skin of his hip, the dimples in his back.

When Richie turns to face Eddie, arms stretched straight up above his head and hands clasped, Eddie maps the lines that trail down into the hem of Richie's jeans with his gaze. Until Richie drops his arms and his shirt lowers and Eddie blinks and looks down at his hands.

"We might as well go to bed," Richie says. "The movie's pretty bad anyway." Then he grins and holds his hand out towards Eddie. "Need me to carry you, princess?"

Eddie scowls. "Call me that one more time, Richie, I swear to god..."

"Sorry, sorry." Richie laughs. "Need me to carry you..." He bows very deeply, arm crossed over his stomach, and lifts his head, "...your majesty?"

Eddie snorts. "You're the worst." He gets to his feet and shoves Richie jokingly as he walks toward the hallway. Richie follows after him, still laughing.

Earlier that evening, an hour or so after Eddie had arrived, Richie had said, very casually, "you should stay over tonight." And Eddie had been a little nervous, because he's never slept over without Violet there before, and a little hesitant, because he was sure his mother wouldn't like him staying out. But, above all that, he'd been excited, because sleepovers seemed like the pinnacle of friendship. You know a friendship is real when you have a sleepover. That sort of thing. And, if you haven't figured it out already, Eddie is very into friendships. So he'd said, "yeah, sure," and he'd called his mother to tell her he wouldn't be coming home, promised her he'd do a bunch of chores or eat a ton of veggies or do whatever she wanted to make up for it when she got all worked up.

Now, in Richie's room, in the dim, serene 12 am darkness, Eddie sits on Richie's bed while Richie finds some spare blankets in his cupboard and sets up a bed on the floor.

"You take the bed," he tells Eddie.

"No way," Eddie replies. "It's your bed. I'll be fine on the floor."

"No way," Richie says. "You're the guest. You get the bed."

 _"No way,"_ Eddie says, smiling a little now. "I'm not a guest, I basically live here. I'll take the floor."

Richie reaches over to grab a pillow from his bed, and when he leans back, he points a finger at Eddie, smiling a little, too. "No way." He points the finger at his chest. "I'm taking the floor."

Eddie points a finger back at him. "No way." He points the finger at his chest. "I'm taking the floor."

And as soon as Richie places the pillow on the floor, Eddie dives toward the little make-shift bed and buries himself under the blankets. When he rolls over to look up Richie, the ground hard beneath his back, the blankets tickling his chin, hair wild over the pillow, Richie is gaping at him.

"Too late." Eddie grins.

 _"No way,"_ Richie says.

In the end, Richie tugs down the blankets from his bed, grabs another pillow, and makes up a bed for himself on the floor. "Because there's no way I'm sleeping on a soft bed while my friend's on the floor," Richie tells him (and Eddie's chest warms at the word 'friend'), "it'll ruin my reputation as the nicest, kindest, most giving person in Derry."

Eddie laughs at that.

So now they're lying next to each other on Richie's messy floor. The lights are off, and Eddie lays on his back and gazes up at the shadowy ceiling. Then he rolls over onto his side and stares at the dark outline of Richie's posters - the one's made from sleek, shiny paper gleam in the faint moonlight peeking through Richie's window. Then, Eddie rolls over and lays once again on his back.

Richie's voice already sounds heavy with sleep. "The floor too uncomfortable for you, princess?"

"Shut up." Eddie rolls over to face him. Richie's pale skin looks a little grey in the black of night, silver of the moon, his wide brown eyes still alight, the flickering flame of a melting candle. "I told you not to call me that."

"Sorry." The corner of Richie's mouth is lifted. He studies Eddie with half his face squished snuggly into his pillow, curls falling everywhere. "But ever since that day...I can't stop picturing you as Princess Leia. I mean, you're just like her. Smart, short, feisty. And you got those big, chocolate, doe eyes that make people like Han Solo completely crazy for you."

Eddie presses his lips together, brow pinched. "I think Violet's more like Princess Leia."

Richie lifts the shoulder that isn't pressed into the floor. And Eddie doesn't miss the way his smile falls, like Violet is a sobering subject. "I guess. Personality wise, maybe. Doesn't stop the fact that you and Leia are still basically the same person though."

"No we're not," Eddie huffs. But he knows that he's not going to be able to convince Richie otherwise, (especially since Richie always grins like an idiot whenever Eddie disagrees with him on the topic, like Eddie is just proving his point) so he asks, "Which Star Wars character are you, then?"

"I'm Han Solo," Richie replies. The answer comes immediately, because he's obviously considered himself to be Han Solo for a long time. "Wisecracker, scoundrel, ruggedly handsome..."

A loud laugh escapes Eddie before he can help it. He claps his hand over his mouth. Richie raises an eyebrow at him, grin never wavering. "What?" he asks. "Don't think I'm ruggedly handsome?"

 _"Ruggedly,"_ Eddie echos, and something embarrassingly like a giggle leaves his lips.

Richie places a hand on his pillow, near his face, and watches Eddie with a smile. "Yeah. I think it describes me perfectly."

"Okay," Eddie says teasingly, fingertips still pressed to his mouth, "whatever you say."

And it's a nice moment, there on Richie's messy floor. Even though it presses hard into their hipbones, will make their backs ache in the morning, they don't mind at all. Because they are giddy with each other's company, and relaxed with the warm weight of sleep pressing over them, the room full of shadows and moonlight, and the dreamy feel of midnight.

"Hey," Richie murmurs. He is a haze in Eddie's vision, there and then not, as Eddie's tired eyes flutter. So Eddie can't see the way Richie tugs at a loose thread in his pillow case, the way he looks at Eddie and then drops his gaze down to the gap between them. Nervous.

"Hmm?" hums Eddie sleepily.

"Come with me to the movies next Saturday. It'll be just like watching movies on the couch, but better."

Eddie's mind is so heavy with sleep now. Feels like he's fading away. But he likes the sound of that. He likes the sound of anything that has to do with spending time with Richie.

Voice thick with the pressing weight of sleep, Eddie teases, "Only if you buy me popcorn."

"Of course," Richie says. "I'll buy you as much as you like."

Eddie falls, then, into sleep. Doesn't see the way Richie smiles at him. The nerves gone, now Richie breathes excitement, and joy, and something that brings a softness to his eyes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"What about this?" Violet asks, rubbing the fabric between her thumb and forefinger.

She and Eddie are at the fabric store in town, a large, bright store usually full of moms and elderly women poking around the rows and rows of vibrant fabrics. The one Violet studies now is especially loud and full of clashing colours.

"Ugly," Eddie replies. "Too in-your-face."

Violet grins. "I've taught you so well."

He and Violet come here fairly often, though they haven't visited it as much of late, because Violet's aunt buys her a lot of fabrics (her aunt is very well off, Eddie has found out, and also pays for them to still live in their house). So it's nice to be back. Eddie's always considered it to one of those places where reality feels a little off, like you step inside and time stops, or you've entered another little world.

The first time Violet had taken him here, Macie and Abigail had been with them. Eddie's never forgotten, because while Violet had poking through the fabrics in the discount bin, Macie and Abigail had been clinging to each other, giggling.

They had been looking at the guy behind the counter in the middle of the store. Around eighteen or nineteen, he was the kind of guy who'd probably look very muscular if he flexed, with broad shoulders, short brown hair, and one ear pierced. He was cutting up rolls of fabric for a small, elderly woman, making pleasant small talk. He seemed a little timid, but nice. A normal guy.

But Abigail and Macie just couldn't stop _laughing_.

"What?" Violet had finally asked, looking a bit like she regretted bringing them along.

"Haven't you heard?" Macie giggled. Violet exchanged a look with Eddie, who shrugged. "You see the guy behind the counter? Wade Johnson?" Macie lowered her voice, a glint in her eye. "He's _gay."_

That word felt a little like ice when it hit Eddie, froze him still. Violet, on the other hand, just frowned, looked to Wade, then back at Macie (who was, somehow, still giggling).

"So?" Violet asked. "How is that funny?"

Macie and Abigail faltered a little.

"Well, he doesn't look gay," Abigail replied.

"What, do you want him to walk around with a sign saying _I'm gay_ around his neck?" Violet asked. "I still don't get what's funny." Macie and Abigail blinked at her. Violet turned back to the discount bin. "Are you gonna help me find some fabrics or not?"

Eddie was stuck between gaping at Violet in a reverent type of awe, and glancing at Wade with a private sort of curiosity.

Macie and Abigail hurried to help her.

Wade is here today. Measures out their fabrics and rings them up. Eddie and Violet come here often enough that they're on friendly terms with him now. Eddie really likes him, he's kind and gentle-natured and always gives them a small discount. He smiles a lot at Eddie and Eddie always notices it, skin always prickles whenever Wade's blue eyes land on him.

"What are you making this week?" Wade asks, as he measures the fabric. "Have you finished those costumes you were going to make?"

"I might make a jacket with this," Violet muses, fingering the denim fabric he's measuring. "But we just liked the others. We might come up with something later."

"And Violet finished a Princess Leia costume for our friend," Eddie adds. "It's really good."

"Yeah?" Wade smiles. "I wish I could see it."

"We'll have to show you some of the stuff we've made someday," Violet says.

"That'd be awesome." Wade finishes up with the measuring, folds the fabrics neatly and carefully places them in a plastic bag. As he's ringing them up he says, "Hey, by the way...I'm having a party at my place on Saturday night. You guys are welcome to come. And bring your friends, if you want."

Eddie pauses. He's going to the movies with Richie on Saturday night. He opens his mouth but Violet is already speaking.

"It's been a while since I've been to a party," she says. "Sounds good. I'm sure the girls would love to come too."

Wade's gaze flickers over to Eddie.

Eddie is still paused.

Because...if Violet can go to this party, it means she won't be at her aunt's house this weekend. Which means he can't go with Richie anyway, right? Because Violet will wonder where he is, because they always do things together. But he could always just lie and say he has other plans, with, like, his mom or something. And then see a movie with Richie while Violet is at the party. She'd never know...right?

But...what if he never gets the chance to do something like this again? Party with Violet...with _Wade._ Eddie has always thought that these little interactions with Wade are far too short. Wishes that he could have longer, deeper conversations with him.

It's just that...he thinks that Wade holds the answers to some questions Eddie has held for a very long time.

Wade is still watching him.

Eddie replies: "I'll be there."

And Wade smiles and he and Violet chatter on about the details and Eddie stares at his hands.

He's going to have to cancel on Richie.

He feels a little sick.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It's become a rarity to have all three of them in the house at once.

But it's a Thursday afternoon, a grey, cloudy sort of day, and here they all are.

Violet is muttering to herself as she scours through the fridge, ducked over to sort through the bottom shelves. Eddie is sitting at the kitchen island, idly flipping through the newspaper. Richie is sitting cross-legged in front of the TV, changing the channels every few seconds, so all you can hear is loud snippets of dialogue and spouts of white noise.

It's lazy and mellow. Eddie feels at ease. At home. Until Violet slams the fridge door shut and snaps, "Pick a fucking channel or I throw the TV out the window."

Eddie turns to stare at the back of Richie's curly head.

"There's no reason to hurt the TV, Vi, it did nothing wrong," Richie replies. He changes the channel again. "

Richie, I swear. That's so damn annoying."

Richie still doesn't bother turning around. Changes the channel again. "There's no reason to swear, Vi."

Violet looks as though she's about to tear her hair out.

"Come on, Richie," Eddie says. Richie cranes his neck to look at him. Eddie gives him a small smile. Richie chooses a channel then settles down onto the couch.

Violet meets Eddie gaze and gives him something between an exasperated look, a laugh, a roll of her eyes, and a smile. _So annoying_ , she mouths a him. Then, "I'm going to the bathroom. Can you look for some spinach for me, Eddie? I swear we had some. The salad I wanna make doesn't taste nearly as good without it."

Eddie nods and she disappears down the hallway. Richie turns to grin at Eddie over the back of the couch as soon as the sound of the bathroom door closing echos down the hall.

"Okay," he says. "About Saturday. I was looking at all the movies that are playing and there's some good ones...I mean, it depends on what kind of movie you want to watch...but I know you like don't horror and are a fan of coming-of-age films so I thought..."

"Richie," Eddie interrupts, chest tight. Eddie suddenly feels like he can't look directly into Richie's eyes, but he tries his best to hold his gaze. "I...um." He has to do this some time, so he might as well do it now. "I got invited to a party. With Violet. On Saturday."

"I bet they were really bummed when you said you couldn't go," Richie says. Eddie balks. "I'm joking, Spaghetti. Have fun at that party."

"I'm sorry..." Eddie begins.

"It's alright," Richie replies sincerely. "Violet comes first, I get that."

"No," Eddie replies hurriedly. "No, no, it's just...I mean, you know...how she doesn't really want us to be friends. I just thought, like, if I didn't go with her she might get suspicious or...I don't know. She might decide not to go too and spend the night at home and find out and, like...she'll probably be so confused and angry if she realised how long I've been keeping this from her...ah, shit. I don't know. I just...how about we see a movie on Sunday?"

His rambly words leave him breathless, he stares at Richie with wide eyes and his chest rising and falling. Richie gives him a smile, but his mouth is closed, and it doesn't reach anywhere near his eyes.

"I'm working on Sunday," he says.

"Working?"

"Yeah. I got a job last week. It's just at a supermarket, but I start on Sunday."

Richie looks bashful, but, even through all this guilt he's feeling, Eddie feels so thrilled for him. "That's awesome, Richie. Congrats."

"Yeah." Richie shrugs. "It means I'm going to be pretty busy, though, especially in these next few weeks, so I might have to get a raincheck on that movie."

And, god, Eddie's fucked this up. Richie had wanted to go on Saturday because that was the last night he knew he'd be available. And he'd probably been planning on telling Eddie about his new job on Saturday, too, and it'd be less of a strained moment and more of a ridiculously happy one. Eddie would've made jokes about Richie now being able to buy him things and Richie would've laughed and nudged his shoulder, or even pinched his cheek, and it would've been so much better than how it is now.

"I won't watch any movies without you," Eddie promises, "It just won't be the same without you throwing popcorn at the screen anyway." It sounds like a joke and Richie huffs a barley-there laugh like it's a joke but, you know...it's almost not really a joke.

That's the last thing they get to say each other before Violet is marching down the hall, drying her hands on her jeans, then pointing over at Eddie.

"Never mind the spinach, I thought of something way better for dinner," she says.

And in her arrival, Eddie spinning in his seat to smile at her, it goes unnoticed the way Richie turns slowly back to face the TV, digs his fingers into his knees, his jaw locked, his shoulders tight.

 

 

* * *

 

 

House parties aren't quite what they look like in movies.

There are still red cups everywhere, loud music thumping over the stereo, people crowded together and 'dancing' in a way that is just them jumping up down. But it's not wild, or out of control, and there's a lot of people just sitting back and chatting, and everyone is really friendly. But, maybe it's just that Wade's house parties are different from most, because there are also two guys making out against a wall.

On one side of Eddie; Macie, Abigail, and Elizabeth are chatting to a small group of Wade's friends - passed the introduction phase quickly, and are straight into the laughing-and-playfully-hitting-each-other's-shoulders phase. On the other side, Violet is talking to a girl who also works at the fabric store, because Violet just gets along with everyone at the fabric store. And Eddie stands alone between the two groups, and stares at those two guys making out against the damn wall.

He's never seen two guys kiss before, so that must be why he's finding it so difficult to tear his eyes away. It doesn't quite explain whatever it is that stirs in his stomach when the boys fists their hands in each other's shirts, when one trails his lips down the other's neck, though. But he's not sure if that's really a mystery.

"Hey." There's a nudge at Eddie's shoulder, and he startles. Wade has slipped up to his side, and hands over the glass of water he had gone to fetch for him as soon as he found out Eddie didn't like to drink. Because Wade is just that nice, and he smiles warmly at Eddie, and asks him questions about school, and his hobbies. It's weird not seeing him in work uniform, wears a light blue button up with the top few buttons undone, but Eddie likes it too.

"Do you wanna go somewhere quieter?" Wade asks, ducks a bit to speak into Eddie's ear. Eddie gets a strong whiff of the musky scent of his cologne. "It'll be easier to talk."

"Okay," Eddie replies. Maybe, he thinks, he'll be able to ask Wade some of his questions. He tells Violet where he's going, just in case she wants to come as well, but she just waves him off happily, and Eddie follows Wade upstairs alone.

Wade had blocked this all off, there's no one else up here, so it is much quieter; the music and chatter muffled below them. Wade leads Eddie into his bedroom, and when he shuts the door, you could almost pretend there's no party at all.

Wade's room is a weird mix of posters of high-glam models on the walls, dozens of shiny sports medals on his shelves and bedside table, baby blue carpet, and workout equipment sitting on and around the chair in the corner.

"You played football?" Eddie asks, fingers ghosting over the sports trophies. Wade leans against his dresser, nursing a drink, watches him.

"Yeah, in a high school," he replies. "I broke my knee, though, in my senior year, and had to quit. They said I wouldn't ever be able to play again."

Eddie brushes the dust off the plaque of one of his junior year trophies. "That's terrible."

Wade shrugs. "It's alright. I never saw myself playing after high school anyway."

Eddie nods, drops is gaze to Wade's bedside table. There's an old movie ticket for  _Return of Je_ _di_ left among some notebooks. Eddie picks it up with smile. 

"I love Star Wars," he says, showing Wade the ticket. "My friend says I'm a lot like Princess Leia." The last bit just sort of tumbles out of him, doesn't know why. Maybe it's because he's been thinking about Richie all night, and how he could be sitting in a movie theatre with him right now. 

"I can see that," Wade replies. 

Eddie blushes, embarrassed that he even brought it up, puts the ticket back and sits himself down on the edge of the bed, still gazing around the room. He can feel Wade's eyes on him, heavy, but pretends he can't.

"Hey..." Wade starts, clears his throat. Nervous. "Eddie...you know...you know I'm gay, right?"

Eddie looks at him quickly. "Y-yeah. I mean, I heard...."

"I know I never told you," Wade says. "But I figured someone else would've. Things travel around pretty quickly around here."

"Oh, yeah. Abigail and Macie kinda said something about it..."

"It's just..." Wade looks down into his drink, like he's trying to find the words in the dark contents. "I saw you watching Matt and Tyler kissing...and you seemed pretty surprised. And...disgusted, almost."

"N-no, no," Eddie rushes. "I wasn't disgusted at all I was just..." _Curious. Intrigued._ "I've never seen two guys kissing before and I, I didn't mean to stare or anything I just... couldn't look away for some reason. Because I...well I..."

"...liked it?" Wade finishes for him, looking over at Eddie without lifting his head.

A fire burns beneath Eddie's skin.

He thinks back to the way their hips had been pressed together, their way their mouths moved, hungry, as they kissed each other, and his stomach dips and flutters, as though he is still watching it happen before him, and he stares down at his hands and whispers, "I don't know."

But here's the thing. He's ten and a group of boys ask if he wants to join in on their game of soccer. And Eddie says yes, and hates himself when they get upset at him for not diving for the ball, because he so verily wanted to impress them. And he's twelve, and he's not interested in talking about girls, like all the other boys are. But sometimes he lets himself wish that some of the other boys talk about him.

He's fourteen and kissing girls doesn't sound appealing.

He's sixteen and kissing boys sounds...

_Did he like it?_

In the silence that follows, Eddie looks up at Wade and desperately wishes he would say something. Because that's why Eddie's here, isn't it? That's why Eddie didn't say no. Wade will give him answers. Wade will know how to deal with this. Wade will explain exactly what's going on inside him.

But Wade says nothing.

And Eddie finds the answers himself.

"It's okay, Eddie," Wade finally whispers.

And it must be quite a show for him, all the emotions that are flittering across Eddie's face.

Eddie nods. It's okay. It's okay. He picks at his fingernails, and his vision has gone kind of hazy, but he's not going to cry. He's not. It's okay.

And there he is, sitting in a strange room, with the thump of music below his feet, and the intense gazes of fashion stars staring down at him from the walls. There he is, with his chest tight and his hands sweaty but a weight gone from his shoulders that he didn't even know was there. There he is, not with Violet, or Richie, or even his mother, but with a nice boy named Wade, with who he now shares this revelation.

What an odd, terrifying, exhilarating moment it is.

"You know," Eddie says, voice rough around the edges. "I...I never really thought about it. Or, I tried not to." He meets Wade's comforting smile. "But I guess...I always had a feeling." 

"Yeah?" Wade sounds encouraging, like he wants Eddie to open up about it. But Eddie has a thousand things going on inside him at once, and he's sinking, falling, deep inside himself, to try and pick it all apart and piece it all together. 

So Wade tells his own story, about his own revelation, about coming to terms with it, about finding the right people to share it with. And he lets Eddie sit in silence. 

It's okay. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Eddie has not told Violet about his mother, or about his lack of friends during his childhood, but he wants to tell her about this.

It feels safe to tell her, because he's already seen how she reacts in this sort of situation - in the fabric store with Abigail and Macie - and he trusts her. To accept him, to not tell anyone else. And Wade had told him about how great he felt, after he came out to his family. Because he spent so much of his life feeling alone, disconnected from everyone because of this secret inside him, but his family had been supportive, and it brought them even closer. Eddie really likes the thought of that. Of not feeling so alone. Of being even _closer_ to Violet. But he's human and this quite a big secret to give, so he feels anxious.

The thing is, though, is that he hardly finds himself alone with Violet at all in the next couple of days. They spend an afternoon at Macie's, and then at Abigail's, and go shopping with Elizabeth, and go out for lunch with all of them. Eddie supposes it's good, because it gives him time to really think over everything, to come to terms with himself. Because everything had kind of hit him at once, a discovery at breakneck speed, sitting on Wade Johnson's bed. He and Wade hadn't even had much of a chance to talk about it, about his own feelings, because Eddie had continued to be overwhelmed, and because someone had burst through Wade's bedroom door to tell him that someone had smashed a glass on the floor, and so they'd ended up back downstairs.

It's almost a week since a party when Eddie and Violet finally find themselves alone. A Friday night, they eat M&M's as they watch gameshows together on the couch. Violet has her feet kicked up on the coffee table, and she keeps getting all the answers right. Eddie has his legs crossed, picks out all the red M&M's, and he watches her from the corner of his eye.

 _Tell her_. Just do it. Say the words.

"The author of _To Kill A Mockingbird_ is Harper Lee," Violet snaps at the screen. "Oh...my god...please tell me he's not going to... _Shakespeare?!_ He thinks Shakespeare wrote it...what the fu- did he not attend a single highschool English class? How did he get on this show?"

She angrily stuffs her hand into bowl and scoops up a handful of M&M's. "...Oh, I got a couple red ones. You want them?

Eddie holds out his hand, she grips his wrist to keep it steady. As she tips the M&M's from her own palm carefully onto his, he swallows roughly.

"Violet - "

The door opens, a gust of cold wind rolling inside, and Richie walks in. Eddie can't even be disappointed with the interruption, because he's so happy to see him. Has not had the chance to speak to him since last week, when he cancelled on him (which Eddie still feels a slight guilt over), and Eddie's really not a big fan of not seeing his friends.

Eddie smiles over the back of the couch. "Hey."

Richie tugs off his jacket, work uniform underneath. Hair ruffled from the wind, he's not wearing his glasses, eyes look tired and dark. They scan over Eddie and Violet, where Violet is holding Eddie's wrist, to the TV, and back.

"Wanna watch with us?" Eddie asks. "This guy's an idiot. He thinks Shakespeare wrote to Kill a Mockingbird."

"I think I might just go to bed," Richie says. "I'm pretty tired."

"Oh." Both Eddie's voice and shoulders drop in disappointment. He glances over at Violet, who hasn't looked up since Richie walked in. She has let go of Eddie's wrist now, and idly picks at the M&M's in her hand. "Okay."

Richie gives him a closed-mouth smile, then disappears down the hall.

Eddie keeps looking at Violet. At the way her body language had changed, at the way she'd gone quiet, when Richie entered. It's so weird. She and Richie don't get along because they're so different, Eddie knows, but he and Richie are different and they still get along. He thinks that...maybe...there's something else to it, a complicated history between them, perhaps. He wishes he knew, he wishes there wasn't.

 

Eddie loses his nerve that night, and so it happens two days later, while he and Violet are wandering along the water's edge at the Barrens.

Violet's hair - pulled up in a ponytail - sways in the cool breeze, as she kicks at the loose rocks to find one suitable for skimming. Eddie rubs at his cold nose and decides: now or never.

"Hey, um, Violet," he says. She hums in response, bending over to scoop up a smooth rock. The water laps gently at the bank, the wind whistles through the trees, the sky is a faded shade of blue. It all breathes behind him, as he breathes it all in. "I'm...I'm gay."

And those words sink like the rocks by his feet. How funny it is that some things can make you feel so light and heavy all at once.

Violet straightens. Her red lips slightly parted. Her grey eyes slightly widened.

"I should make you a rainbow patch," she says. "To sew onto your jacket."

Eddie blinks. It's just the casual, calm, unperturbed answer Eddie was nowhere near expecting, but desperately needing. He'd expecting tears, heartfelt confessions, maybe even a bit of self-loathing, a hug or too. But he gets a weight taken easily off his chest, lifted by Violet's hands, and it leaves him with such a light, floaty feeling. It rolls off him, until the air around feels light and floaty as well, and a wide smile stretches over his face.

"Yeah," he says. "I'd like that."

Violet smiles too.

"I...kinda wanna hug you now," Eddie adds. 

Violet laughs, opens her arms. "Then hug me." 

And so Eddie wraps his arms around her, and she wraps his arms around him. And maybe there still are some tears, but they are not sad, they are happy, and they soak into the shoulder of his best friend. 

 

They sit on the rocks and watch the water, and Eddie tells her about it. He talks and talks and talks. About how he never quite felt like everyone else, about how he never developed crushes on anyone, about he always had a feeling but he let it simmer at the back of his mind, about how it boiled over at Wade's party. He honestly doesn't think he's ever spoken this much all at once before, but it feels so good, and Violet doesn't mind. She listens and listens and listens. 

Eddie wants to tell her,  _if I could fall in love with a girl, it'd be you._

 

* * *

 

 Eddie wants to tell Richie. But he doesn't know if he can. If he should. He hardly sees Richie in that next week or so anyway. It's probably good. He needs some time to work himself up to it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The following Friday, Eddie runs into Wade in town.

Eddie is leaving the chemist when he hears someone shout his name, turns to see Wade walking towards him, jacket over his work uniform, tired, like he's just finished a shift.

They make small talk, and Eddie feels like it should be awkward or something, but it isn't. It just feels like there's something unsaid between them, or at least, something that Wade isn't saying. Because he keeps rocking forward on his heels, opening his mouth, hesitating, pressing his fingers to his mouth, and then closing it again.

So Eddie tries something first.

"I told Violet," he says. Looks around to make sure no one's nearby, "that I'm gay. It...went really well."

"That's great, Eddie." Wade smiles. "I'm really happy for you." But his smile fades quickly, and he inhales deeply, runs a hand over his short hair. "Hey...I know this might be a bit forward, and you're probably going through a lot right now, but...I was wondering if you wanted to come over for dinner tomorrow night." When the smile returns, it's nervous. "As a date."

A...a _date?_ Eddie stares owlishly at him. With flowers and hand holding and kisses like in movies and stuff? Holy shit. Wade _likes_ him...wants to date him. Well, he did look at Eddie a _lot,_ and he always smiled at him very warmly...but Eddie never really thought he would actually like him romantically, he just...noticed.

"I would take you out to a fancy restaurant," Wade adds, "but, I guess it's really not the safest thing for two guys to go on a date out in public, you know? But I have work off, and the house to myself, and I'm a pretty good cook, so I thought it might be nice."

 _He likes me_ , Eddie thinks, heart thundering. _He really likes me_.

It's insane, it's exhilarating. Eddie thought no one ever would.

"O-okay," Eddie says, breathless for some reason. Smiles so wide it almost hurts. "I'd really like that. A date."

Wade looks relieved, happy, and they work out the details, Eddie writes down his address so Wade can pick him up, and then they part ways, with the promise to see each other tomorrow, and Eddie feels a bit like he's walking on a cloud.

A date. He, Eddie Kaspbrak, is going on a date. He can hardly believe it. He has two best friends and now he's going on a date. His twelve year old self would hardly recognise him.

These past few weeks have been such a whirlwind, haven't they? And he should feel overwhelmed, and well, maybe he does, but it really feels like a hurricane has swept through his life, the strong winds have rearranged his reality, and, instead of destruction, he's found that everything has changed for the better.

A date, a date, a date.

Oh, shit.

A _date._

He's never been on one before, obviously. But, aside from the vague knowledge he's gathered from movies, he knows almost nothing about them. How different is it to just hanging out with a really close friend? Does he have to dress really nicely? Sunday best? Is he expected to buy Wade flowers? How will he know when the right time to hold Wade's hand is?

What about...kissing? Do you kiss on a first date? Should he kiss Wade or will Wade kiss _him?_ Eddie doesn't know to kiss!

_Fuck._

Eddie is frozen on the sidewalk. And he's fallen through that giddy, bright cloud he was floating on, and sunken into the prickly underbrush.

He needs help, advice.

He needs Violet.

 

 

Eddie rides home, drops off the things he bought in town, and then rides straight to the Tozier's house. It leaves his legs aching and his breaths short and dry, and the sky is darkening into a shade of navy blue by the time he finally drops his bike onto the front lawn. But he bursts through the door with as much vigorous energy that he bolted from town with.

There's a thud almost as soon as Eddie bangs the door open. Richie had been lounging on the couch, and, after Eddie's abrupt entrance, had toppled onto the floor.

"Jesus, _fuck,"_ Richie hisses, getting to his knees. Pushes his glasses back up his nose and gives Eddie a startled look. "You scared the shit out of me."

"Sorry." Eddie's gaze flitters around the house distractedly. "Where's Violet?"

"Right, never mind the fact that I almost had a fucking heart attack," Richie grumbles, pushing himself to his feet. He stretches out his arms, cracks his back. "Our aunt picked Violet up a couple hours ago."

 _"What?"_ Eddie slaps a hand to his forehead. "Oh no, no, no...." Violet's gone to her aunt's for the weekend...she won't be here at _all_...fuck, fuck, _fuck._

What is he supposed to do _now?_

"Is everything alright, Eddie?" Richie asks. "If you were looking for help from Violet...maybe I could help you instead."

Eddie's eyes dart to him.

He's not sure if Violet's ever been on a date, but she's great at advice, and calming him down, so it doesn't matter. Richie...well, he's not the best at advice, but - with his chiselled bone structure and flirtatious personality - he's surely dabbled in the dating scene.

Guess the answer to his question is right here.

"I have a date," Eddie blurts. "Tomorrow. And I need advice."

Richie's expression goes blank, but it takes three steps to get there. First, his eyes widen, then his mouth opens, just slightly, and then it all comes crashing down: a furrowed brow, a slanted mouth. Before he schools it all into something neutral.

"Oh," he says. There's a hollowness to his voice. "I guess you do need Violet. You could try calling her."

"Do your know your aunt's number?" Eddie asks hopefully.

Richie's expression comes crashing down again. "Shit. I don't."

 _Great._ Eddie begins to pace anxiously, running his fingers through the small curls in his hair. "It's just, I've never been on a date before. And I'm not really sure what to do. Like, are there certain rules you need to know when you go on a date? Are there certain things you and shouldn't say? What if I fuck it all up? What if he ends up hating me?"

He realises his mistake too late.

"You're going on a date with a guy," Richie says. It's a statement, just the reiteration of a fact, and so his voice is devoid of much emotion. But...somewhere in there...Eddie swears he hears a revelation.

The tips of Eddie's ears go hot, fears a negative reaction as he replies, in a little more than a squeak "Yeah."

It's jarring to see Richie's face as such a blank state. "Who?" he asks.

"This guy called Wade..."

"Wade Johnson?" Richie asks. Eddie nods. "I went to school with him." He twists the leather bands around his wrist. "He's a nice guy, but, uh, I guess you already know that. It's just, you know, I think it'll be difficult for you to make him hate you." A pause. "Where is he taking you?"

This is not exactly what Eddie wants to be focusing on right now, but he's glad, relieved, that Richie has treated his attraction to guys in the same casual, unperturbed manner as Violet. He should've known that Richie would, shoulders relaxing, a softness to his heart. What a fierce reminder that he is so incredibly lucky to call these two people his best friends.

"We're having dinner at his place," Eddie replies.

Richie frowns, displeased. "Why isn't he taking you out somewhere nice?"

"It's not really safe for two guys to go out on a date in public," Eddie answers, echoing Wade's words.

Richie's gaze drifts. Revaluating. "Oh."

"Yeah," Eddie says. "But, anyway, I just really need some help. Do you know anything about dating? Do you think you could help me?"

"I mean, I've only been on a couple dates, and none of them were very good, so I don't know how much help I'll actually be, but...sure." 

"I wish they taught this shit at school, you know?" Eddie says. "So people could practise."

Richie and Eddie look at each other.

They are hit with the same thought.

 

 

"Okay, how do I greet him? Should I shake his hand or...?"

"Eddie, this is a date, not a job interview," Richie snorts. "Just greet him normally."

Eddie nods, wipes his sweaty hands on his jeans. He's nervous, which is stupid, because it is Richie standing there, in front of the kitchen island - hands in his pockets as he waits for Eddie to knock on the imaginary door in front of him - not Wade.

If he's this stressed about about a fake date, he's going to be a wreck tomorrow.

"Okay, okay." Eddie inhales, steps up towards him. Richie's mouth quirks as Eddie lifts his fist to knock. "Don't laugh," Eddie warns. "You can't even see me, remember? There's a door here."

"Sorry, sorry," Richie says, trying very hard to smother down his smile. "I mean...who am I talking to? I'm here, in my home, as Wade Johnson, by myself."

Eddie snorts, then he schools his features, lifts his hand again, and knocks on thin air. Richie pretends to pull open a door.

Eddie tries very hard, at that moment, to imagine standing on Wade's front door step. To imagine that he is looking at Wade right now, dressed in nice, neat date clothes, a warm but nervous smile. But it's hard to see anything but lanky, dishevelled Richie Tozier, in a crumpled flannel shirt shrugged over a band tee, in ripped jeans as dark as his unruly hair.

"Eddie, hey," Richie says, channelling the badly suppressed anxiousness of a guy on a date. "Wow, you look great. Amazing. I mean you always look good, but...wow."

Eddie's cheeks dust pink. He leans in and Richie ducks down, to catch his words.

"What am I supposed to say to that?" Eddie whispers.

"Say thank you, and then compliment him back," Richie whispers in return. Eddie nods and they pull away and fall back into character.

"Thanks," Eddie says. "You look great, too. I really like your hair."

It's hard to tell whether he's saying that about Wade, because all he can see is Richie.

"You're too kind," Richie says with a grin. He steps back. "Come in, come in."

"Okay." Eddie moves towards him but stops, struck by a thought, and slaps a hand against his forehead. "Ah, shit. Wade's picking me up from my house. We've got it all wrong..."

"It doesn't matter. The conversation will still be about the same," Richie says. But Eddie's too fretfully stressed for that.

"We have to start again. Okay? Pretend you're picking me up in your car."

It takes a few tries for them to get the beginning right, because Eddie nitpicks the little things, and Richie finds it very hard to keep back his laughter. On their fourth try, they both burst out into a fit of giggles, because Eddie had called Richie, 'Rade', in a bad mash-up of their names, and then 'Wichie' when he tried to correct himself. Richie had laughed so hard that he'd snorted like a pig, which only made the two of them laugh even harder.

Finally they get over to the kitchen island, where "dinner" is being served. Rice crackers on dinner plates, because that's pretty much all they could find. They look so pitiful on the large, fancy dinnerware, that as soon and Richie and Eddie sit down, they erupt into another round of senseless laughter.

"You really outdid yourself, Wade," Eddie giggles, poking at the rice crackers with his fork.

"Only the best for you, my love," Richie replies. He spends a long time trying to stab a piece of the crackers onto his fork, because it keeps crumbling. Finally, he holds a piece up towards Eddie's face. "Here, try some. It's an old family recipe."

Eddie leans over the countertop to take a bite. "Mmm. Really well-seasoned."

He loses Richie to laughter for another five minutes.

They become more serious on about their eighth try, because the giddiness has started to wear off by then. The muscles in Eddie's face ache from laughing and, frankly, he's beginning to feel a bit tired. Outside, the sky is black, spotted with stars. Inside, the house is a warm shade of amber, the lights off and lamps on, to set, Richie had said, a more romantic mood.

Eddie rests his elbow on the counter, his cheek on his closed fist, and gazes over at Richie. "What kind of stuff do you talk about on a date?"

"Well," Richie considers. "What do you and Wade have in common?"

"Fashion, I guess." Eddie thinks over his conversations with Wade. "We both like Star Wars."

Richie raises an eyebrow. "Would you say he's the Han Solo to your Princess Leia?"

 _"What?"_ Eddie splutters, straightening in his seat. "No. I mean, I _like_ him but I'm not in _love_ with him or anything. Plus, he's nothing like Han Solo. And... _you're_ Han Solo, remember?"

The blush that rises up on his cheeks is delayed, because it takes him a few moments to realise the implication of that.

"Personality wise," he adds, flustered.

Richie shrugs. "I'm just glad you didn't deny being Princess Leia."

Eddie gets caught between an annoyed huff and a laugh. "Shut up."

They practise making small talk for a bit. Eddie asks "Wade" about his hobbies, his work, his family, and Richie gives him a bunch of made-up answers. However, Richie gets a bit of a scrunched up look, like he's got something on he's mind, and he pokes at the crumbs on his plate and then finally asks, "Hey...what does your mom think about you going out with someone three years older than you?"

Oh, so Wade's nineteen. Doesn't make a difference, Eddie had just been unsure of it until now. He lifts a shoulder. "My mom doesn't know. I wouldn't be going on a date if she knew."

"Ah, so you'll be sneaking out tomorrow. Dangerous Eddie, I like it."

The smile Eddie gives only touches one half of his mouth, because he's still thinking of his mother and she's not something to smile about. "You know...I haven't told her about you, either. Or about Violet. She wouldn't like that I'm spending so much time with a girl, because she's so afraid of me dating someone and leaving her. She's just...so controlling over everything I do. I've never really been able to live my own life. Until I met you and Violet."

The words just kind of spill out of him, like they're tired of being held in for so long. And it's therapeutic, but he stares down at his plate, because Richie's gaze is sad, sympathetic, and he really doesn't want his pity. Doesn't _deserve_ Richie feeling sorry for him. Because even though his mother fucking sucks sometimes, he still has her. Richie's mother is dead.

"Sorry," Eddie says. "That's probably not good date-talk."

"I've always thought that the best dates are when the ones where you have real conversations," Richie says. "It shows a deeper connection."

"I guess we have a deeper connection, then," Eddie says.

Richie smiles. "I guess we do."

 

After "dinner", they move to the couch, because Richie is sure that Wade will want to watch a movie with him. They don't actually watch a movie though, or even bother to turn the TV on, because Eddie just wants to practise how he should sit.

It starts with the two of them sitting with a fair few inches between them, and Eddie sitting with his back very straight and his hands gripping his thighs. Richie tells him, gently, to relax a bit. So Eddie lets himself slouch a little. Only a little. Because he was told that slouching is very unattractive.

"Now, don't get scared off," Richie murmurs. "But Wade will probably try to do this." Then he stretches his arm over the back of the couch, behind Eddie.

And it's weird, because they're not really touching, except for the brush of Richie's flannel sleeve against the nape of Eddie's neck, but Eddie suddenly feels him everywhere. Particularly in the sliver of a gap between them, like their energy is meeting in the middle, mingling, warming over Eddie's skin, like he can feel everywhere they _aren't_ touching as a tangible thing.

"Okay," Eddie says. Then he slides over, closes that gap, until his shoulder is tucked beneath Richie's armpit, and his arm is pressed against Richie's side, and their thighs are nudged together. "Should I do this?"

"Yeah." Richie's voice is quiet. "I think he'll like that."

Eddie cranes his neck to look up him, only to find that Richie is already looking at him. Gaze steady, unwavering. But there's a dusting of red over Richie's cheeks. It matches the scarlet colour of Eddie's own.

"What about hand holding?" Eddie asks, and at some point his voice has became just as quiet as Richie's. "Do you think he'll try to hold my hand?"

Richie nods. "I think so," he whispers. And then he pulls his arm back from behind Eddie, and lowers it hesitantly. He places his hand on his thigh, palm up. Can't look away from it.

His fingers are long, elegant. A musician's hands. Born to create art. Bathed in the honey glow.

Eddie reaches out. Slowly. He starts at the base of Richie's palm. Fingertips ghosting over the spot where Richie's hand and wrist meet. Richie's fingers twitch when they touch, skin against skin, and Eddie grazes his fingers up along Richie's hand, a spark, something hot, like electricity, shooting up from Richie's palm, into Eddie's fingertips, up through his arm until it meets his heart.

He fits his fingers in the gaps between Richie's.

"That feels good," Eddie murmurs. Richie's hands are warm, much bigger than Eddie's. When their fingers interlock, Richie squeezes him, tight. "I think he'll like it."

"Yeah," Richie breathes. "I think he will."

They stare at their joined hands for a very long time. And maybe it's because they are avoiding looking at each other.

Finally, though, Eddie turns his head, slowly lifts his chin. And Richie's eyes meet his. And they are shy, almost, they are nervous. But they hold such a weight within them.

Eddie knows he's pushing his luck. That this is probably not a good idea. But he wants anything to be perfect tomorrow. He wants to be thorough.

He whispers, "do you think he'll try to kiss me?"

And Richie stares. His gaze searching, but un-moving. Stares deep, _deep_ into Eddie's eyes.

And Eddie's said the wrong thing, hasn't he? Because he can feel that Richie has gone stiff, up against him, hand frozen in his own. And his gaze doesn't stop searching, doesn't stop diving, deep, deep, _deep,_ into Eddie's own. He's looking for something. Eddie hopes he'll find what he's looking for.

He squeezes Richie's hand.

And Richie moves. It's quick. One second, his hand is in Eddie's, and the next second, it is cupping Eddie's jaw. Their faces only a breath apart. Richie presses his thumb to the corner of Eddie's mouth, and his gaze tracks the movement.

He breathes, "do you need me to teach you?"

Eddie can't speak, his heart drops to his stomach, flips over, and then darts up into his throat. He nods.

"Part your lips," Richie murmurs. But he places his thumb over Eddie's mouth, gently tugs down at Eddie's lower lip, and does it for him. His eyelids are hooded, eyes glued to where his thumb stays over Eddie's bottom lip; and his mouth parts too, subconsciously imitates the movement.

The air between them is so thick Eddie could choke on it.

He waits for the next instruction, but there is none. Richie moves his thumb, just a little, and places it over the gap between Eddie's lips. He doesn't say anything. Just watches, and watches, and watches. Eddie is suddenly so desperate for more contact between them, for something, _anything,_ to happen to his mouth, that he feels the urge to kiss Richie's thumb, to swipe at it with his tongue, to pull it into his mouth and suck on it.

_Wha-_

Richie begins to lean in. Agonisingly slow. He tilts Eddie's chin up, he inhales, his eyes flutter. 

It is Eddie's body, not his mind, that _yearns_ for Richie to close the gap. Because his mind still knows this is fake, his mind still knows that tomorrow he...

Richie doesn't kiss him. He bumps his forehead to Eddie's, closes his eyes, cups Eddie's cheek.

 _"Eddie,"_ he breathes. It's like he's breathing Eddie in. He swipes his thumb over Eddie's cheek, inhales a shuddering breath. "Don't go on that date tomorrow."

And Eddie pulls away. 

Richie drops his hand, looks over at Eddie hurriedly. "I'm sorry," he says. "I..." 

"I'm going on that date tomorrow," Eddie says. He looks down at his own hands, voice going soft, "I've never been on one before, Richie. It's my first one."

"I know," Richie stresses. "I know. I just...wish you wouldn't, okay? I just need some time..."

"Some time to do what?"

Richie tries to reply but he can't. Mouth opens and closes but he can't find the words. He stares at Eddie helplessly, like Eddie is suppose to know everything he's leaving unsaid. 

Eddie pretends to check his watch. 

"It's getting late," he says. "I should probably get home. I don't want to be tired for tomorrow." 

Richie sags back against the couch in something like defeat. "Okay," he replies. It's more like a sigh. "Do you need me to drive you home?" 

"I'm fine." Eddie gets to his feet. "But thanks, you know, for everything. I think my date's gonna go well. You taught me a lot of great stuff that'll help." 

Richie holds his gaze. "I wish I hadn't." 

Eddie frowns. And he holds Richie's gaze right back. Waiting to see if he'll say something else.  _Daring_ him to. 

But Richie says nothing. 

"Fine," Eddie says. "Good night, Richie." 

And he doesn't want to be mad at him. Because Richie is one of his best friends, after all. Because Richie spent the whole evening listening to Eddie stress and worry and tell him,  _no wait this is all wrong, we need to do it again_ over and over without complaint. But he ruined the whole night. But he turned something that Eddie was completely over the moon about, into something that makes him confused, something that makes him second guess himself, something he isn't sure he wants anymore, but also something he wants fiercely out of spite. And so Eddie is mad. 

He slams the door a little on the way out. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

The night, Eddie lays in bed, and he doesn't sleep. 

He thinks, instead, of Richie's parted lips. Glistening in the lamplight, inching closer and closer to his own.  

A heat pools in his stomach, when his mind erases over reality, and instead, shows him Richie leaning forward until their mouths meet. 

Something inside him whispers, to the Richie that kisses him,  _I'll give you all the time you need._

Everything else inside him screams,  _go to sleep!_ And so he does. He kicks out his thoughts, rolls over, and closes his eyes. Because it's late, and his legs ache from all the riding he did today, and his eyes ache from how long he's kept them open.  

And he's got a date tomorrow. 


	4. now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me vs failing the dont add another chapter challenge
> 
> jfkdjk im so sorry this chapter took forever!! i've been rlly busy n struggling w writers block and i wrote like half of this, didn't like it, and then rewrote it. hopefully that wont happen next time lmao 
> 
> also. im still like...super overwhelmed by all the lovely and amazing and beautiful comments that everyones leaving on this fic??? i honestly smile like an idiot over every single one of them and im sorry im terrible at replying to all of them, but i do go back and read them all the time, especially when i dont feel like writing. so thank you!!!!!!!

 

_6 months earlier_

 

 

Violet's fingers hover over the phone.

It's quiet at her aunt's house. A relief to the chaos of the past few days. Where aunts and uncles and cousins and people she hasn't even met before have been knocking on the door and filling the lounge room with their condolences.

She feels as though she's been in an everlasting conversation about her mother's death. One that is stiff and hushed, and also slightly vague, like you can only talk about death if you don't actually say the words "death" and "dead". It's exhausting - every saddened word is a brick lain on her shoulders - and surreal. Like sometimes she will zone out and she'll be somewhere else, somewhere with her mother, a memory, but then she'll blink and sombre faces will stare at her and she'll think, _oh. This is my life now._

Her fingers twitch.

She _needs_ to call Richie, to give him information about the funeral.

But she needs a distraction from this nightmare first.

There are only four possible people she could call, and only one person she actually _wants_ to call. That person is Eddie. Obviously. But she knows that he will probably be the furthest thing from a distraction, because he'll worry about her, and his voice will be all soft and sad, and he'll mean well, but it'll only add fuel to this ache in her chest.

Next, she could call Elizabeth, but she already called her a couple days ago, when she was seeking a distraction much like today. She could call Macie but, while Macie is bright and fun and bubbly, she can also be a little insensitive, and will probably say something dumb without thinking.

So she calls Abigail. And it goes like this:

Abigail: Hello?

Violet: Hey, Abi. It's Violet.

Abigail: Oh! Violet. It's really great to hear from you. I've missed you at school. How are you?

Violet: Um. Yeah, not great.

Abigail: Oh my god, that was such a dumb question, I'm sorry.

Violet: It's okay.

Abigail: Okay.

Violet: ...

Abigail: ...

Abigail: Hey, Richie's still at home, right? Macie and I were thinking of making something for him. Because he'd be all by himself, poor thing. Do you know if he likes pizza or lasagna better?

Here, Violet pauses. Processes the words, and then spends a good few seconds glaring at the white-wash wall in front of her.

Violet: He doesn't like either. I'm gonna go now.

Abigail: Oh -

Violet: Bye.

Then, Violet slams the phone back on the hook with force, raises a shaky hand to push her hair out of her face.

"Typical," she mutters. " _Typical."_ She grabs the phone and slams it fiercely on the hook again. "Fucking typical."

It may seem strange to the unknowing eye, maybe even over-dramatic, her anger. But she is not just angry at this one isolated event, but the fact that this event is a culmination of a hundred other events, just as infuriating and dejecting as this one.

Violet doesn't leave much time to compose herself before she is snatching up the phone and dialling another number.

"Hello?"

"Richie, it's Violet."

"Oh." Richie sounds genuinely surprised. "Hey, Vi."

Violet is fully prepared to snap at him. To make him the target of an anger he hasn't even caused -though he is part of this, he's not blameless in this. But, it's nice to his voice, after everything. Nice to hear him sounding... _normal_ , and not like he hasn't slept or eaten in days.

She sighs, leans forwards to rest her forehead against the wall.

"Everything alright where you are?" she mumbles, staring down at her socked feet. "You haven't done anything stupid have you?"

"Vi, I breathe dumb shit," Richie says, an attempt at being lighthearted. "But, don't worry. I haven't done anything major. Eddie's been keeping me in check."

Violet smiles softly at that. She misses him, Eddie. Because while it's nice to be here with her family, he's her family too.

But then Richie ruins anything.

He says, "You know, I gotta admit, I kinda wish I'd met him first." And Violet is once again glaring at the wall.

"So he'd be your friend?" she asks, thinly. "Instead of mine?"

Richie groans. "Oh, come on, Violet. Not this again."

It's not the time for this, she knows, she knows, she knows, but... "Do you know what Abigail said to me? Only a few minutes ago when I called her?" she asks, pressing the phone firmly into her ear, inhaling deeply. "She asked me how I was. And then she talked about you. She and Macie are gonna make you a pizza or something, because they're so _worried_ about you. They're not doing anything like that for me."

"It's not like I asked them to do that," Richie scoffs.

"You don't have to, Richie. They just _like_ you." Violet throws her free hand in the air, though she knows he can't see it. "And you play into it. You thrive off the attention. You're always talking to them, flirting with them...even after I asked you not to, over and over. You know, just because you don't have any friends, doesn't mean you get to steal mine."

"Oh, come _on_ ," Richie says, frustrated. Violet imagines him standing in the kitchen, tugging at his hair. "I'm not trying to _steal_ your friends. If they happen to like me better than you, that's not my fault."

"You _make_ them like you better than me! You completely indulge them!" Violet pauses, chest heaving. Tries to compose herself. She doesn't want to lose her cool here. There's no point. She and Richie have had this argument a hundred times. "Whatever," she snaps.  "You know, I asked Eddie to keep an eye on you, because I care about you. You're my brother. I didn't want you to be alone, wanted make sure you're okay - which...you haven't done for me, by the way. I don't think you've even asked me how I am _once_. But you're not ruining this for me this time. He's mine, okay? I met him first."

The silence on Richie's end sounds seething. And when he speaks the words are sharp and hot, like they have burned inside him for too long. "You only like him because he worships you." 

Violet pauses. It feels as though Richie has doused her in a bucket of cold water, but the water was nightly black, and left her drowned in the dark.

"That's not true," she says, keeps her voice even.

"He does anything you want, Vi. You could tell him to jump in front of a train and he would," Richie replies. "I know you must get a kick out of it, because you've made him like everything you like. He likes fashion and running and he cooks all the time now, all that shit. You turned him into a mini you."

"I..."

"And you love it. Finally you've got someone who only cares about _you,"_ Richie continues. "But you can't keep him to yourself forever."

"I'm not trying to keep him to myself," Violet replies. "I'm just trying to keep him away from you." And with that, she rips the phone from her ear and slams it onto the hook.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Now_

 

 

Eddie's not quite sure if there's a certain way one should get ready for a date, but he gets ready like this:

He hardly sleeps the night before, and spends a lot of time staring anxiously up at the ceiling in the morning. He hardly eats anything all day. And when he _does_ eat, the food touches his churning stomach, and lurches all the way back up to his throat.

He paces in his room. He pulls all his clothes out of his cupboard and tries on everything twice. He gets down on his knees on the bathroom floor and dry heaves into the toilet.

If there _is_ a certain way to get ready, he's fairly sure it does not include brushing his teeth for the fourth time that day and willing his body to stop trembling as he stares at his teary eyes in the mirror.

Still, as he tries on yet another shirt, he does have a moment of excitement. His first date! Growing up, Eddie had always figured that dates were just something that _other_ people experienced, because they seemed so special, they didn't seem like something that would never happen to him. But he liked the idea of them: candle lit dinners, tentative hand holds, lingering gazes, romance.

He hopes that tonight will be special. He hopes, he hopes, he...

Needs to throw up again.

As the evening approaches, he finally picks out an outfit and combs out his hair. A blue button up and his nicest pair of jeans, controls the curl to his hair with some product, slicks it back. He really should get his hair cut, his mother has been nagging him. But he kind of likes it, and once Richie had tugged on a curl and told him it looked good. So.

The only upside to this evening is the fact that his mother isn't home; she's looking after one of her friends who's fallen ill and won't be back until late. So he's free to have his continuous panic attacks in peace, without her panicking over his panic.

He almost has a heart attack when Wade finally knocks on the door.

Here's the thing, Eddie feels very weird about last night - the way he'd felt with Richie's face so close, with Richie's thumb on his lip, the fact that Richie hadn't want him to go on the date at all - and he's sure that it is a contributing factor to this anxiety clawing over his heart.

But he uses every last bit of advice Richie gave him.

"You look nice," Wade tells him, when Eddie opens the door.

"Thanks," Eddie replies. "You look nice, too."

"So, do you have any hobbies?" Eddie asks, as they drive to Wade's house. "What do you do for fun?"

It works, all the practise he had last night. Eddie manages to control his nerves, and he and Wade make easy conversation throughout the entire drive. Wade serves him dinner, and it's not candle-lit, but it tastes nice - even though Eddie only pecks at it - and Eddie doesn't throw any of it back up, so that's good.

There's two problems though.

One, with all the anxiety, and the fact that Eddie can hardly do anything without thinking over everything he practised last night first, nothing about the date feels natural. Eddie feels as though he's reading from a script, almost. And he spends far too much time inside his head, rather than being outside of it, rather than being _present._ It only makes him more stressed. Like, is he coming off as rigid, a bit like a robot? He asks Wade about his football, which, thankfully, sets Wade off on a bit of a spiel. Meaning, all Eddie has to do is sit there and listen.

But there's still the second problem. Which is: he can't really think about the advice Richie had given him without also thinking of Richie.

So, while Wade is talking, his short hair neat, his navy blue shirt crisp and pressed, pulled slightly taut over his broad shoulders, Eddie's brain glitches. And instead he sees Richie sitting opposite him, with his messy hair and messy clothes and messy smile. While Wade talks about football, Eddie sees Richie laughing over their ridiculous fake date, eating dry rice crackers, teasing Eddie.

Wade changes the subject, asks Eddie about school. And Eddie sees Richie, with his elbows on the table, his face held in his hands, looking almost comically eager, as he asks Eddie the same question, so Eddie can practise his answer.

Eddie smiles at the image. At Richie. Caught up in the daydream until Wade smiles back, because it looks like Eddie's smiling at _him._

Oh. Eddie _should_ be smiling at him. Because they're on a date. His first date. It's supposed to be special.

So he beams back at Wade and lets all thoughts of Richie drop. 

After dinner, they move into the lounge room. Eddie perched on the couch, watching, as Wade turns the lights off, lights some candles around the room. Gets some soft music playing from the stereo. The mood, the whole feel of the room changes, under the warm, flickering light, the gentle sounds. It's romantic. It's what Eddie expected a date to feel like.

It makes him feel inexplicably uncomfortable.

Wade is tentative when he sits down next to Eddie, but he's obvious in his intention. He sits very close, and even though he leaves a space between them, he shifts his leg over to fill the gap. Eddie stares down at where their legs are pressed together, can feel Wade staring at him.

"Everything okay, Eddie?" asks Wade gently. He reaches out and places a hand on Eddie's knee, squeezes it gently, which makes it hard for Eddie to tear his gaze away to look at his face.

"O-oh, yeah," Eddie stammers. Clears his throat and meets Wade's unwavering gaze with a smile that shakes and slips. "I'm fine. Just...just nervous, I guess."

Wade smiles back, and it is much steadier. "Me too. I was worried that I'd be such a nervous wreck, I'd ruin the date. But...it's gone pretty well, don't you think?"

Eddie pauses. Well, he could be wrong, considering he has very little to compare it to, but he doesn't think this date has gone well at all. It definitely hasn't gone as he expected, at least. And it's all his fault. Because he can't get out of his own head, because he keeps seeing Richie when he looks at Wade, because, for some, his throat is tight, and his hands are sweaty, over the fact that Wade _still_ has his hand on Eddie's knee.

But to say that would only ruin the date even further. So Eddie works on keeping his smile from slipping, turning it into something warm and reassuring, and whispers, "I think it's gone great."

And, much like he and Richie had practised, Wade stretches his arm along the back of the couch, behind Eddie. Angles his body toward him, so Eddie's shoulder slots into his side, under his armpit. Eddie barely dares to move, keeps his body facing straight ahead of him, though he turns to watch as Wade ducks his head toward him, eyes lidded.

"I really like you, Eddie," Wade murmurs. 

Eddie's eyes widen, lips part involuntarily, and he stares as Wade's gaze immediately drops to his mouth. Oh fuck. Oh _fuck._ He and Richie didn't prepare for a confession. Why didn't they prepare for a confession! They fucking prepared for _kiss_ but not for Wade telling him he likes him? Shit, what should Eddie say here?

He imagines Richie sitting there, with his arm around him. Like last night. And their sides, their thighs, are pressed together, and Richie's face is close, and he is looking at Eddie's mouth. But instead of making Eddie's throat feel tight, it sends a tingling sensation over his entire body.

Eddie pictures it just like they're practising: Richie, pretending to be Wade, says _I really like you, Eddie._ And, at Eddie's frightened silence, Richie leans down and murmurs into his ear, _tell Wade you like him back._ And, god, it's just a daydream, but Eddie swears he can feel Richie's breath ghost over the shell of his ear, fan over his jaw and neck. It makes him shiver.

He breathes, "I like you too, Richie."

And then he snaps back to reality.

Wade leans back, though he leaves his arm behind Eddie, and the way his expression caves, a furrowed brow, deep frown, is so severe, you'd think he was trying to solve complex equations. "Did you just call me...Richie?"

Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit. Eddie's face flares red. "I...I, um..."

"Like, Richie Tozier? Violet's brother?" Wade continues, eyes searching.

"Y-yeah, he's just... my friend. I'm sorry...I..."

One half of Wade's mouth quirks, and he pulls his arm back from around Eddie. That one move seems to signal the beginning of the end. And it is both disappointing and relieving all at once.

"A friend who you think about while you're on a date?" Wade asks. His smile is humourless. "Who you think about while you're telling me you like me?"

Word fails Eddie. He stares at Wade helplessly, mouth opening and closing.

He should defend himself. He should explain that it's not what Wade thinks. That Richie had helped him practise for the date, _that's_ why he was thinking of him. He was only thinking of Richie's advice, and his nervous, skittery mind switched the names out. He should tell Wade he doesn't like Richie, not like that, not like that.

But when he speaks, all he says, weakly, quietly, defeatedly, is, "I'm sorry."

Everything seems to deflate. Wade sighs and runs a hand over his hair. One of the candles goes out.

"Fuck," Wade mutters. Rests his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. "I really thought you..."

But he doesn't

And it's funny, in the least funny way, that here's a sweet boy who likes him, who would be _good_ for him, but Eddie's lonely heart looks the other way to him. But Eddie's lonely heart clings to the two people who have filled it, and decided that no longer being empty also means being full.

He wants to tell it that Richie and Violet are not the only two people he needs.

But Eddie's never been good at speaking to his heart.

Wade runs his hands down his thighs, stops to grip at his knees, lifts his head. It looks like he's thinking something over. Slowly, he turns and meets Eddie's wide gaze. Hurriedly, he leans back towards Eddie, places one hand on his hip, the other under Eddie's jaw, and lifts Eddie's chin.

"What -- " The rest of the words get caught in Eddie's throat.

"We could still try," Wade says, eyes roaming hungrily over Eddie's face, linger over Eddie's mouth. "Just one kiss..."

"I don't..."

Wade presses his thumb to Edde's chin, tugs down to part Eddie's lips. He licks over his own. "Have you ever kissed anyone before, Eddie?"

Eddie is frozen, completely, to the spot. Wade - either oblivious to, or ignoring Eddie's stiffness - leans in. Is this supposed to happen? Is he supposed to just go with it? Let Wade kiss him? He and Richie prepared for this, for a kiss. And at that time, Eddie had wanted one. But as Wade's mouth gets closer to his, as his breath fans over Eddie's lips, Eddie feels sick at the thought.

"I'm sorry." Eddie pulls back. Wade tightens his grip on Eddie's hips for a moment, only a split second, but Eddie panics at the thought of him not letting him go. He tears himself away, staggers to his feet. "I...um...I need to use the bathroom. Could you...tell me where it is?"

Wade settles against the back of the couch, tense. "Upstairs. Third door on the right."

Eddie leaves before he can say anything more.

He doesn't go to the bathroom, in fact, he skips over the third door on the right completely as he hastily pokes his head into each room, opens and shuts bedroom doors, until he finds what he's looking for.

A phone. He finds one in Wade's parent's bedroom, on the bedside table. He lurches toward it, grabs the phone with trembling fingers, and dials the number to the Tozier house.

He and Richie may have left on a tense note last night, and Eddie's been annoyed thinking about it all day, but there's honestly no one would else he would rather talk to right now.

Well, except, maybe...

"Hello?"

" _Violet?"_

"Oh, Eddie!" Violet's voice is bright, and it's amazing, really, at how quickly it smoothes over the chaos in his mind, his stomach, his heart. Like a gentle caress, soft whispered words. Eddie presses the phone closer to his face, soaks in every breath she takes. "I got back from my aunt's early. So, how was your date? Richie told me about it. I can't believe I didn't know! I mean, I didn't even realise you _liked_ Wade. But he's a nice guy, so I'm glad..."

"I'm still here," Eddie blurts. "And I need you to pick me up right now."

Violet halts. Her frown is so loud, Eddie can see it through the phone. "Is everything okay?"

"It's just...not going well. He's supposed to drop me home but I don't...He tried to kiss me and I'm worried he's going to try again. "

"I'll be there in ten minutes," Violet says.

She hangs up. Eddie keeps the phone to his ear, like he maybe he'll be able to catch an echo of her voice.

He does use the bathroom, in the end, and he spends a very long time washing his hands, because he's trying to delay going back downstairs for as long as possible. But he can't stay up here forever, so after around five minutes, he gingerly steps back into the lounge room.

Wade is still on the couch, hunched over, with his forearms on his knees and his hands clasped. He startles when Eddie appears by the armrest.

"Hey," he says. "I'm sorry about before. Do you think we can start again?" He smiles warmly, patting the spot next to him.

"Wade I...I think we're better off as friends," Eddie admits. "Thanks for the dinner, and everything, but I don't think there's much point in starting over. Violet's picking me up in five minutes."

"Is that what you were doing upstairs?" Wade asks. He digs his fingers into his knee, shoulders locked, utters _"fuck",_ and then gets to his feet. "Look, I know you like Richie, but he's straight- the really obnoxious kind of straight: he flirted with girls constantly all throughout highschool. You have no chance with him."

Eddie's stomach sinks.

"It's probably best if you get over that crush now, before it gets worse. Crushes on straight guys suck, trust me, I know," Wade continues. He takes a step toward Eddie. "Why don't you call Violet again and tell her not to worry?"

"I really don't think..."

"We don't have to date," Wade interrupts, stepping even closer. "If you have no romantic feelings for me. But we can kiss. I bet you've never kissed anyone before, have you? You're only sixteen, and you've only just realised you were gay, so I don't really think you have. I can teach you." Another step forward. This time, Eddie takes a step back. "Come on, Eddie. I know you want to know, what kissing a guy is like. I saw you watching my friends making out, remember? I saw how much you liked it. You'll like this too. You'll like it _more."_

Eddie continues moving away, but he stops. It hits him, then, that this must've been what Wade wanted all along. He seemed so _nice_ , was so helpful and kind to Eddie when he was coming to term with his sexuality...but the whole time he just wanted to get in Eddie's pants.

It makes him feel sick. No. _No._ Even if he doesn't like Wade romanitically, he still likes him as a friend. He doesn't want this to be happening, he wants Wade to stop, just _stop,_ go back to normal. They can put this behind him, they can still be friends...

"I'll go slow," Wade's voice drops, low, stretches his hand out toward Eddie's hip.

"I don't want to," Eddie says firmly.

"Come on..."

" _No,_ Wade," Eddie snaps, in a tone that sounds a lot like _fuck off_. "Please stop."

They're both startled by the sound of a horn honking. Wade drops his hand and looks at Eddie quickly.

"Eddie, wait..."

"That's my ride," Eddie says. "I gotta go."

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," Wade says. He follows Eddie to the front door. "I just really like you."

"I'll see you around," Eddie says, ignoring him. He opens the front door, and is greeted with the dark night. Sparse stars glittering the sky, streetlamps humming on the sidewalks, and, parked in front of Wade's house, the headlights glowing bright along the black road, Richie's old beat up car.

Wade says something, but Eddie doesn't hear it. He's already marching from the front door - and he's trying to keep his shoulders straight, his chin up, but he stumbles over the uneven lawn, and just can't get to the car fast enough, so he runs the rest of the way, and tears the backdoor open.

Both Violet and Richie are twisted in their seats, gazing at him, as he falls into the backseat.

"You okay, Eddie?" Violet asks.

"Did he do something to you?" Richie questions.

Eddie feels breathless, stares into the worried faces of his two best friends - their matching pale skin turned grey in the moonlight, their matching black hair fading into the shadows. And everything melts from him, the anxiety, the nausea, the feeling of Wade's hand gripping his knee. 

"I'm fine," he reassures them. He's more than fine now. He feels content. Safe. "Let's get out of here."

 

 

 

They don't go to the Tozier's house, or even Eddie's house. Instead, they go to a little 24 hour diner on the edge of town, because Eddie hasn't eaten a proper meal all day, and, now that his stomach no longer churns with nerves, he can feel the full effect of it.

The diner's a quaint little place, most of the little metal tables empty under the florescent lights - not many people at getting food at nearly 10pm. The three of them fill into a booth, Eddie on one side, Richie and Violet on the other. They sit with a fair bit of space between them, and don't speak to each other unless necessary, like they're trying to be on their best behaviour for Eddie.

Eddie pretends not to mind. He's just happy they're both here, even if Richie is only here because he's the only one who can drive.

"So what happened?" Violet asks, as they look through their menus. "You said Wade tried to kiss you."

Richie's eyebrow quirks, but he doesn't lift his head, continues to scour over his menu.

"Yeah." Eddie sighs, scratches his fingernail absently along the tabletop. "He was really insistent about it. He cupped my face and leaned in and everything. I don't know, maybe it wasn't that bad. But I realised that I don't really like him like...that. So it made me really uncomfortable."

"Hey, you have every right to be uncomfortable," Violet says. "It sounds like he was trying to coerce a kiss from you, which is such asshole behaviour. God..." she breaks off, shakes her head. "I always thought he was so nice. I mean...he's our _friend,_ you know? It must make this so much harder for you."

It does. It makes Eddie want to cry a little, if he's honest. But he feels like it'd be a waste of tears, so he just shrugs and says, "I guess, but I think I'll be alright. He was kind of boring anyway."

Violet nods in agreement, says something about how he talked about football too much. Richie lifts his menu closer to his face, but only to hide the smile dancing along his lips. 

They chat idly for a bit, as they wait for the waitress to come back so they can order their food. But it's mostly just Violet talking (and insulting Wade, in an attempt to make Eddie feel better) because Richie is oddly quiet (probably to avoid the risk of he and Violet arguing) and Eddie is...distracted.

_I like you too, Richie._

A glitch in his mind, a slip of the tongue, a mistake. Eddie sneaks a look at Richie now - he's looking out the window, chin resting on his fingertips - and lets his eyes rake over the way Richie's hair curls, down the nape of his neck, over his ears, brushing his forehead. Soaks in the way the light of the diner glints off his glasses, his warm brown eyes;  the veins twisting around his wrist to his forearm, the long, slightly bony shape of his fingers. He knows how those fingers feel, wrapped around his waist, nudging Eddie's shoulder, or knee, caressing his face.

He likes how those fingers feel.

Richie must feel him staring, because he turns his head and meets Eddie's gaze. And Eddie should look away, he _should._ But Richie's unwavering feels strong, steady, like the earth beneath his feet - so different to the overpowering, the domineering, way Wade's gaze had felt - and Eddie buries himself in it until it's all he can see. All he can feel.

Richie's gaze darts to Violet, but she's too busy searching for the waitress over her shoulder to notice the way they're looking at each other. It flickers back to Eddie. Eddie starts to lift one corner of his mouth in a smile.

" _Finally,"_ Violet says, turning back in her seat. Richie's gaze drops down to his menu.

For a day that began with little sleep, that carried through with Eddie spending far too long on the bathroom floor, that contained the date from hell, it really does end well. They eat until they're groaning back against their seats, stomachs full, and Violet comes up with a whole dictionary full of insults for Wade, and Eddie laughs so hard at her that milkshake comes out of his nose.

And Richie is still quiet, but he and Eddie look at each other whenever Violet isn't watching. Long, lingering gazes. Feels like something passing between them. Makes Eddie's stomach curl.

They're just leaving, Richie and Eddie are already out the door, when Violet ducks over to the back of the diner, to use the bathroom.

The two boys watch her, the door swinging shut in front of them, and then they tentatively look at each other.

It is Richie Tozier standing next to Eddie, his best friend, someone who he feels safe, comfortable with. But, with the way Eddie's heart pounds, his hands sweat, it might as well be someone else.

"Hey," Richie says, sounding a little awkward. Why hasn't Eddie noticed how nice Richie's voice is before? It's low, smooth. A peaceful hum. Would probably make a great singing voice.

He thinks, that maybe he has noticed it, but only now is he acknowledging the fact that he would very much like to know how Richie's voice sounds whispering sweet nothings in his ear.

He's fucked.

"I hope you're okay," Richie continues, scratches the back of his neck. "You know, after that whole date with Wade."

"Oh, y-yeah. I'm fine," Eddie says, and _his_ voice is a stuttering mess. "I'm, like. Better now. Being with you and Violet."

In his mind he utters, _you told me not to go. You didn't want me to go. Why didn't you want me to go?_

He thinks he knows. Now that he really considers it, now that he remembers the look Richie had had on his face when their mouths had been a breath apart, when Richie had had his thumb on his lip. 

At least, he _hopes_ that the answer he holds in his chest is true. It must be, it must be. Because why else would Richie say that? But a voice, Wade's voice, hisses, harshly, inside him, _Richie's straight. You have no chance with him._

"That's good," Richie says, shuffling his feet. Eddie nods, pushes a strand of hair away from his face. Richie's eyes track the movement, then look quickly, behind Eddie, at the diner. Like he's worried Violet will come rushing back out through the door, and will see the way his gaze lingers on Eddie's fingers.

His gaze lingers on Richie, too.

"Yeah, it's - ," Eddie begins, at same moment Richie starts, "Hey, Eddie, I -"  

They both break off. Richie tugs at his curls, laughs nervously. 

"You go first," he says, gesturing to Eddie. 

"I was just gonna say 'it's good', it really doesn't matter," Eddie says. "You go." 

Richie continues to tug at his curls, hesitates, looks up at Eddie and bites his lip, hesitates, glances back at the diner and shakes his head. "It doesn't matter." 

When Violet comes back out, she finds the two of them standing together in silence. Doesn't notice anything out of the ordinary, just launches into a tale about how disgusting the bathrooms were.

She leads the way back to the car. Richie walks right beside Eddie, and he doesn't look at him, doesn't speak to him, but every now and then their sleeves brush together. 

 _I like you too, Richie._ Replays Eddie's mind, over and over. _I like you too, I like you, I like you._

It's confounding, it's messy, it's something that is well and truly striking him all at once. He needs to sort through it, reach his hands right into these feelings and untangle them all.

But right now, in this moment, Richie moves close enough for the backs of their hands to touch. Just for a moment, a split second, before they separate. But something hot spikes up Eddie's arm and burns red in his cheeks.

And when he glances shyly over at Richie, he can see that Richie is blushing too.

 

 

 

Violet walks him up to his door when they drop him home. Which is something that a date would do, something that Wade could be doing at this very moment - Eddie is very glad that it's Violet.

"I'm really sorry about your date," Violet says. "You deserve so much better than that, you know?" She reaches out and taps his arm. "But I'm sure you'll go on a ton more, and you'll find someone, who'll treat you right. Who'll love you." Eddie finds himself looking over at Richie's car, and he flushes, and looks back to Violet quickly.

"You think so?"

"Of course. And if you find someone who treats who badly, I'll beat the shit out of them. I'll even enlist Richie to help me, though I'm not sure how much damage he'll do with those twig arms."

Eddie laughs, glances over at the car again. Knows the next question is risky, but the words leave his mouth before he can stop them. "Hey...speaking of...is Richie alright? It's just, he was really quiet tonight."

The mood instantly shifts. Awkward. Tense. Violet hesitates.

"We were fighting before you called me," she admits. "He came home smelling of weed, and he'd been hanging around Macie for most of the afternoon. Because most of my friends like him better than me," she adds, in a lowered tone, like she's speaking to herself. "No matter what I do. Which I'm sure he's happy about."

... _Oh._

Violet blinks, surprised by her own words, and shakes her head. "Sorry. It's just... a mess. I don't know, we've been like this for ages. Fighting all the time. But, don't worry about it, okay? We've got other things to worry about. Like boycotting that fabric store and getting Wade fired."

She smiles when that manages to get out a snort out of Eddie.

"I'll see you later, kay? Call me if you need to," Violet says. 

Eddie nods. Violet squeezes his arm, pauses as though considering something, and then leans forward and presses a kiss to his cheek.

A rush of affectionate rolls over Eddie, so strong it almost knocks him off his feet.

A kiss. An expression of love. And maybe Violet only touches her lips to his skin because she pities him and his horrible date, or maybe she only kisses him to distract him from the worrying, confusing words about Richie that had slipped from her mouth.

But Eddie sees it as an expression of love. It feels like one. In the softness in her eyes, the gentle curve of her mouth, he reads, _I love you._

"Thank you, Violet," he whispers, and it sounds like, _I love you too._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 "I'm gonna go see my friend," Eddie says, tugging on his sneaker. He hops for a moment on one foot, before leaning against the front door, and slipping his shoe on without untying the laces first (which is bad for his shoes, he knows, but he just wants to get out of here. Because his mother is home).

"You see your friend everyday," his mother says, hurrying out from the kitchen. "I don't like it, Eddie."

"But - "

"I need you to do something for me," she interrupts. "I have to bring dinner to my friend, she's far too ill to make anything for herself. So I need you to go into town, buy some stamps, and mail these." She fishes into the large front pocket of her apron and pulls out a stack of envelopes. "Then I want you to come home and _stay_ here. I'll be back late, and I don't like the thought of you traipsing around town with your friend - who I haven't even _met_ \- while I'm not here."

"I don't _traipse,_ " Eddie replies, hotly. He doesn't even know how to traipse. Is it just a fancy type of walk? Whatever. "And why do I have to mail those _now?_ Can't I do it later?"

"Don't speak to me like that," his mother snaps. "You've been different, ever since you started hanging out with that friend of yours. I don't know if they're a good influence on you." Eddie quickly clamps his mouth shut, before she can ban him from going to see them ever again. "And I was supposed to mail these yesterday, but I've been too busy, so I really need you to do this for me." 

"Okay," Eddie sighs, takes the envelopes from her. Guess Violet can wait.

 

 

It's already early evening by the time he gets into town, and he has to hurry to make it to the post office before it closes. (The man behind the counter is already packing up, and doesn't look too impressed when Eddie bursts in, waving the envelopes around wildly in his hand, begging him to not close shop just yet).

There's still some money leftover once he's bought the stamps, so Eddie stops in at a takeaway place for dinner. (His mother left him cold chicken and vegetables for dinner, and Eddie would much rather a large, greasy burger). And he sits at a table by the window as he eats and watches the sky darken, the people walk by briskly, trying to escape the cooling weather, the cars shuttling along the roads.

He shouldn't stay for long - wants to start walking home before it gets too dark - but it's not hard to get distracted by his own thoughts. Not after everything that had happened yesterday.

He rests his cheek on his fist, picks at his fries, and thinks of Richie.

Richie, who's 'obnoxiously straight', Richie, who brushed his hand against his, who didn't want him to go on that date, who...Violet fights with, because he steals her friends.

Well, Violet hadn't said he _steals_ them, exactly. But Eddie feels a little sick over the thought of Richie hanging out with Macie - it does feel like Richie is taking Macie away from Violet, kinda, by doing that. And it makes sense, doesn't it? That's why Violet doesn't invite any of her other friends over, why she told Eddie not to worry about watching over Richie anymore: she's trying to keep them away from him, because her friends all end up liking Richie more than her.

And now Eddie's heart skips a beat when Richie touches him, now Eddie has all these feelings that have rushed up to the surface and are threatening to spill over, and it confuses him, worries him.

It shouldn't, because he loves Violet, would do anything for her, if he had to. He doesn't like Richie more than her, he's not like the others, he's _not_ , even with these newfound feelings. The way he feels about them is just... _different._ Not less, or more.

But what if he and Richie started dating and...?

"Oh my god." Eddie almost lets his head fall onto the tabletop. He and Richie are _not_ going to date. What is he even _thinking?_ Things are going to be as they've always been; Eddie will spend his weekdays with Violet and his weekends with Richie, as _friends,_ and these muddled up feelings will fade.

 _Fuck_ , will they, though? Last night, he had had a dream. One of those ones that feel so real, you're disorientated for a moment, unsure of what's reality, when you wake up. He and Richie had been on Richie's bedroom floor, snuggled up in sleeping bags. But they hadn't been sleeping. Richie had been kissing him. Hot, open-mouthed kisses. That made his lips tingle.

And Eddie's never thought much of kissing before, but, _god,_ does he want to kiss someone if it feels like _that._

Specifically, Richie.

He wants to kiss Richie.

Like, _bad._

He sighs, pushes his leftovers away, gets to his feet. He's fucked. He needs to go. It's getting dark. He's fucked.

And these thoughts are giving him a headache.

 

 

 

Night settles over his shoulders as he reaches the edge of town.

The air is cold, a wind that nips and bites at the exposed skin of his face. He hugs his sweater a little tighter around his body, thankful for his jeans, even though he usually hates wearing them.

Out here, the streets are fairly quiet. Most of the little stores closed for the night, dark rooms behind large glass windows. The street lit by the silver of the moon, and warm bursts of streetlamps, and the little red dot of a lit cigarette.

"Where are your little gay shorts, fag?"

From the shadows resting over a shop front, one of the gross, weed-smoking,  mullet-boys from Richie's group of 'not friends' pushes himself off from the bricked wall, and leers at Eddie with crooked teeth.

"What are you doing out here by yourself, eh?" The boy takes a long drag of his cig, exhales smoke from his nose. "You know it's not safe out here for little queers like you."

It's how funny how much less intimidating the boy is when he's by himself; just a lanky, foul-smoking kid with a mullet.

Eddie walks right past him.

" _Hey,"_ the boy grabs Eddie's forearm. "I'm talking to you."

"Let go of me," Eddie snaps, wrenching his arm away. "You smell like shit."

The boy fists his fingers into the shoulder of Eddie's sweater and pushes Eddie against the shopfront. His back hits the brick wall, hard, knocks the breath from Eddie's throat.

"Getting brave, eh, fag?" the boy sneers, crowding right up into Eddie's space. His foul smoke breath fanning over Eddie's face. "How about you say something like that again and I break your other ankle?"

Heart racing, Eddie flails, managing to get a kick at his shin. The boy growls, pulls Eddie away from the wall and then thrusts him back against it with such force that Eddie hits the back of his head against the rough bricks with a _thwack._

"You're gonna give me a fucking concussion!" Eddie cries, eyes widening at the explosion of pain at the back of his skull.

"I'll do worse than that." The boy grins, a grotesque baring of teeth. "Gonna make you cry like you did that day at the Barrens. You looked like such a pussy. Bet you ran home to your mummy. Oh wait, you couldn't. Because your ankle was fucked up." The grin widens, and the boy kicks at Eddie's shin, much harder than Eddie had kicked at him. "You won't be able to run home after this either."

 _Fuck that._ Head throbbing, pain shooting up Eddie's leg, Eddie scratches at the boy's face with a loud cry. The boy stumbles back in surprise, and Eddie makes a break for it.

"You fucking faggot!" the boy howls. And, before Eddie can take more than three steps, a hand grabs his jumper and yanks it so fiercely, the collar pulls tight against his neck, and he finds himself toppling backward.

He falls to the ground. The moment he hits the concrete, the boy's sneaker hits his face.

It's kind of like the moment in PE, at school, when you're playing basketball or something, and someone throws a ball at you. But you're not looking, or paying attention, because you're probably thinking about how much you hate PE, and so the ball strikes you in the face.

And tears immediately spring to your eyes, and your face stings, and it hurts so bad that you feel angry, so you snap at anyone who asks if you're okay.

It's like that, but ten times worse.

The boy's shoe strikes him in the forehead, and the pain rattles all the way through his skull.

It makes his vision blur - or maybe that's the tears - and he blinks open his stinging eyes, groans. From where his lies, with his cheek pressed against the bumpy ground, he can see spurts of grass growing in the cracks in the sidewalks, a still smouldering cigarette crushed into the concrete. 

And the boy's sneaker, only inches from his face.

"Holy shit, _Eddie_!"

The sneaker pauses. Eddie's breath catches. A _thud_ echoes throughout the quiet street - the sound of a car door slamming shut.

"Richie," the boy greets, casually. Placing his foot on Eddie's shoulder to keep him on the ground. "You here for the weed?"

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Richie spits. His tattered converse sneakers appear in Eddie's vision, dark jeans bunched around his skinny ankles. "Get the fuck away from him."

"Jesus, why are you so hung up over this queer, Tozier? He suck your dick or something? You know you shouldn't let him touch you. He'll give you AIDS."

Eddie hears, rather than sees, Richie's fist connecting with mullet boys face.

He also hears, rather than sees, the punch up that follows. And it's worse than seeing it, because, listening to the pained shouts, the groans, the curses ripped from ragged throats, sets his imagination alight. And his mind is not kind to him.

Panicking over the the thought of mullet-boy punching Richie's teeth out, Eddie surges upright. His head swims, and then drowns, his vision going black, and he thinks he's passed out. But when his senses return to him, he's still in a sitting position.

And Richie is lying on the ground.

"DON'T FUCKING TOUCH HIM," Eddie screams, as mullet boy aims another kicked at Richie's bloodied face.

Mullet boy whips his head around to face him. Distracted. Just for a moment.

It's enough time for Richie to bolt to his feet and tackle him to the ground.

And then it goes like this:

Richie, landing punch after punch on mullet boy's face, fuelled by a storming blend of rage and adrenaline. Richie, collapsing to ground with his fists bruised and battered, when the adrenaline begins to wear off. Eddie, staggering to his feet, grabbing Richie's arm, and yelling, _Run._

He pulls Richie by the wrist to Richie's car.

"Drive!" Eddie shouts, once they've toppled into their seats. Richie fumbles with his keys, blinks through the blood streaming from the cut over his left eye. "Go, _go!"_

"Jesus, Eddie, I'm trying!"

The engine roars to life. Richie plants his foot on the accelerator. They lurch forward.

"Fuck, _fuck."_ Eddie's vision still blurs, head feels wavy, throbbing. His entire body is shaking, his heart feels like it's going to break from his ribcage and surge up his throat. Beside him, Richie's hands, cut at the knuckles, bruised, grip tight on the steering wheel. Like he's trying to anchor himself. It mustn't work, because he's driving all over the place.

"Turn! Turn!" Eddie yelps, as Richie careens toward the sidewalk. "You're gonna get us killed!"

"I can't see shit!" Richie says. The entire left side of his face is covered in blood, dripping from his chin and soaking into his shirt. He lifts his trembling hand to wipe at the wound above his eyebrow.

"Don't touch it, it'll get infected," Eddie snaps.

"What the fuck am I supposed to do then?" Richie bites back. He swipes the blood from his eye. Eddie snatches at Richie's wrist and pulls his arm away.

"Pull over," Eddie instructs. Richie tries to pull his arm from Eddie's grip, but Eddie holds on tight. _"Pull over!"_

And so Richie pulls the car up on the side of the road.

Eddie feels like he can finally breathe, once the rumbling of the engine beneath him stops. Now that he doesn't have to worry about Richie swerving into a tree. He lets go of Richie's wrist and rests back against his seat.

 _Okay._ His head pounds. His hand is covered in Richie's blood. _Richie_ is covered in Richie's blood. But his heart is settling. His vision is clearing. He can fix this.

"I'm gonna fix this," he says.

"Fix what?" God, maybe Richie's the one with the concussion.

 _"You,_ Richie! You're bleeding all over the place," he replies. And he really is. There's blood on his jeans, the seat, the steering wheel. Eddie has always hated seeing people get hurt, but it's about ten times worse when the injured person is someone you care about.

"Do you have a first aid kit?" Eddie asks. Richie, who is wiping the blood on his cheek with the joint of his wrist, gapes at him.

"Um, should I have one?"

" _Yes._ Every car should have one," Eddie says sharply. He steels himself. Now's not the time to get angry. He can fix this...he can fix this...

It's his fault this even happened in the first place, he _has_ to fix this.

He searches through the glovebox for as many things he can find. A packet of tissues, some KFC wipes, a loose Band-Aid, some headbands that look like they once belonged to Violet.

"Okay, we should get in the backseat," Eddie says. "It'll be easier for me to patch you up back there."

"Are you gonna rip anything off like a Band-Aid?" Richie asks weakly. And, despite everything, Eddie finds himself smiling at the callback. They've come so far from that day at the Barrens, when Eddie had sprained his ankle. Now, they're both injured, actually get along, and Eddie is harbouring a very strong urge to press his mouth to Richie's. 

(Of course, that urge could've been there back then, too, he may have just done a better job at harbouring it)

He and Richie climb into the backseat - Richie, leaning against the back of the seat and the side door, Eddie, kneeling on the middle seat, with the supplies on his lap.

"Does this light work?" Eddie asks, reaching up to the ceiling. He flicks the little light a few times, but it stays off.

"Old car," Richie explains, apologetically.

Okay, fine, Eddie can work under only the dim light of the moon, the faint glow of the streetlight at the end of the street. Whatever. It'll be fine.

But then he looks up, eyes now fully adjusting to the dark, and he gets a proper look at Richie's face. And feels the opposite of fine.

While the left side is covered in blood, the right side is home to blossoming bruises, swirls of dark purple across Richie's cheek, down his jaw. There's a cut across his cheek bone, blood already drying around the edges. His glasses are no longer on his face.

"Fuck, Richie," Eddie breathes, eyes widened in horror at the sight before him.

"It's not as bad as it looks," Richie says. Transfixed, Eddie reaches out slowly, toward his cheek. "Just don't touch it."

"I need to clean your wounds," Eddie says, though he drops his hand. "And cover them, so they don't get infected."

Richie nods, putting on, what Eddie considers, a very brave face. "Okay. Just do what you need to do, doc."

Eddie wipes a lot of the blood away with the tissues first, it stains Richie's cheek red, but at least it's no longer dripping from his eyelashes. Second, he cleans over the wounds with the wipes. "This might sting a bit," he warns. Holds onto Richie's shoulder for balance as he leans over, swiping very carefully over the cuts. Richie hisses in pain, clings onto the sleeve of Eddie's sweater.

Third, he uses the band-aid on the cut on Richie's cheek bone, because the band-aid isn't big enough for the cut over Richie's eyebrow. For that, Eddie presses a bunch of carefully folded tissues over the wound, and then keeps them place by wrapping Violet's headband around Richie's head. Richie grinds his teeth together to keep from crying out in pain, his fingers twisting into Eddie's sweater before circling around Eddie's forearm. Either Richie's hands are big, or Eddie's arms are skinny, because Richie's fingers wrap right around him.

 _Don't focus on the pain, look at me, focus on me,_ Eddie wants to say. But there's no point, because Richie already gazes at him. Unwavering, hardly daring to blink, like somewhere, hidden on Eddie's face, is an ease to all this pain.

"This'll have to do for now," Eddie says, adjusting the make-shift bandage. Richie nods, but doesn't let go of Eddie's arm. Eddie's gaze drop to Richie's bruises. Fingers brushing over the purpled skin without thinking. Richie watches him, moonlight glinting off his brown eyes. Doesn't take his eyes off him. "Nothing we can do about these though."

"What about you?" Richie asks. And now he lets go, lifts his own hand to lightly brush over Eddie's forehead with his thumb. It stings a little, because it's where mullet boy kicked him, but Eddie's skin prickles with something else, too.

"I'm fine."

"Why were with him, anyway?" Richie asks. His eyes on his thumb as he lets it graze over Eddie's temple, down by his eye, before pulling away. Eddie's leans forward, only slightly, as though following after it.

"I wasn't _with_ him," Eddie says, pulling back with a blush. "I was walking home and just happened to run into him." He fixes Richie with a look. "You were gonna buy weed from him, weren't you?"

Richie looks down at his hands. "I was, yeah. But I'm really not friends with him, I promise. He's an asshole, and I'd kick his ass all over again if I could. I just...need the weed, okay? It helps me with stress."

Eddie softens a bit. "What are you stressed about?"

"I don't know," Richie sighs. "Everything? Money, the future, Violet..."

He pauses. And he looks, suddenly, very small, sitting there. Slouched in the corner between the seats and the door. Red and purple bruises marking his pale skin - splatters of paint on porcelain, his makeshift bandages already tainted with blood. Dark shadows curve along his sharp jaw, down his throat. There's a vulnerability in his eyes.

"You."

Eddie swallows. "Me?"

"Yeah. You." A crooked smile spreads over Richie's lips, more sad than happy. Doesn't touch his eyes. "You know...I thought you were in love with Violet," he says. "For _so long._ But sometimes, when I saw you looking at me, I'd let myself think..." he trails off. Eddie's chest feels tight. "Whatever. I shouldn't..."

"No," Eddie says, softly. "Continue."

Richie falters, bites his bottom lip, considering. "I thought that...you know...But it was stupid. I mean, why would you ever... especially when Violet is _right there_ , you know?" He sighs, rakes his fingers through his hair. Knows how pointless it is to avoiding saying it. "Still...I liked to think it was true, and that you looked at me differently, that you...liked me. But, I mean, you didn't even realise I was asking you out on a date when I asked invited you to the movies - a bad sign - and then you cancelled it anyway, so I figured I had just had no chance with you. Maybe you were just straight. I stressed over it for ages. Of course, then you came out. Because you were worried about a date with _another_ _guy_ , though, so...all hope was gone. I'm really sorry about what happened, by the way. With Wade. Fuck, it makes me so angry to think..."

"Wait," Eddie says. His heart stammering. He's swallowed Richie's words down and half of them have gotten stuck in his throat, the other half are flipping and spinning and dancing around in his stomach. Richie breaks off, a little breathless. Meets Eddie's wide eyes with nervous ones, fragile ones, like one wrong word could make them break. "You...you like me."

The words feel heavy when they leave Eddie's mouth. Weighted. But they taste sweet.

And Richie's dam breaks. 

"God, Eddie, I like you so fucking much," he breathes; words that cascade from his lips in a rush, words that have been held inside him for far too long. "And I know you probably don't want to hear it, but I just need to say it. I like you. I've pretty much had a crush on you since the moment I first saw you. And I hope this doesn't ruin anything between us, because, I don't care if I can't date you, as long as I still get to be friends with you. I just. I just can't hold that in anymore. It's torture."

Oh. _Oh._ Oh my god. It...doesn't seem real. Eddie stares at Richie, stares and stares and stares. Because...Richie...Richie _likes him! Richie likes him!!!_  Richie wants to date him. Richie Tozier wants to date Eddie Kaspbrak. Richie Tozier fucking likes Eddie Kaspbrak.

Eddie must be silent for too long, because Richie becomes jittery with nervous energy, picking at a thread in his jeans. "...Eddie?"

"Do you know why," Eddie blurts. "My date with Wade went so badly? Aside from the fact that he acted like an asshole?" Richie looks taken aback, hesitantly shakes his head. Eddie's not quite sure what he's saying but he lets it all tumble from his mouth."Because I couldn't stop thinking about you. I thought I was just thinking about the advice you'd given me but I wasn't. I began picturing you there instead of Wade. I _wanted_ you there instead of Wade." Eddie stops to take a breath. "I was thinking about you so much, that when Wade told me he liked me, do you know what I did?"

Richie shakes his head again, clinging onto every word.

Eddie becomes timid, but a smile pulls at the corner of his lips. "I called him by your name." He almost laughs. "He told me he liked me and I said, _'I like you too, Richie.'_ I...I didn't even realise, until that moment. It was like my own fucking brain got tired of how fucking _blind_ I was, and decided to spell it out for me. I like you. I've liked you this whole time."

Richie looks like he can't quite believe it, like it's good to be true, like all his systems have shut down, because they're not used to something like this, something _pure_ and _good_ , happening to them.

Eddie feels the same way too.

And there they are. _There they are._ These thoughts, these feelings, out in the world, in the back of this beat up car. With the faint smell of smoke, and musky deodorant wafting from the seats. With blood dripping on their shirts, staining their skin. There they are, two boys, battered and bruised, with their hearts beating loud between them, with their eyes fixed on each other, with the silence around them so quiet that it feels loud.

Neither of them speak, because they feel like there's no more to say. It feels like there's only one thing left for them to do now. But...how... _how_? They have taken a beating together, but now they are too shy to share in something much softer.

The bandage over Richie's eyebrow begins to slip and Eddie shuffles forward on his knees until he's right in front of him. Then he straightens up, places a hand on Richie's shoulder for balance, and carefully fixes it. Tugs the tissues up gently so they don't fall into Richie's eye.

Something warm, firm, grips his waist. Richie's hands. His thumbs pressing into Eddie's hips, long fingers stretched along Eddie's back.

Eddie doesn't look. Focuses on the bandage. And Richie watches. Watches, watches, watches. Drinks Eddie in. In, in, _in._

When Eddie meets Richie's eye, he is swallowed whole. He is devoured. He is wanted. It is such a foreign feeling. He could get drunk on it.

 _Kiss me,_ breathes his heart. _Richie, please kiss me._

But Richie doesn't move. He is being devoured, too, but Eddie's own gaze. He grips Eddie's waist, because, inside, he crumbles, falls apart, into little pieces.

So Eddie gingerly cups Richie's face, mindful not to touch any bruises, and Richie's lips part, _desperate, yearning._ But Eddie does not touch them. Starts slow, because he is nervous, but potent, because he wants this; he leans down and he presses his lips to Richie's cheek. Much like Violet had done, but he kisses Richie longer than Violet had, tastes the metallic tang of blood, the salty essence of sweat, on Richie's soft skin. But he feels something different, than when he'd been with Violet, a sense of warmth in all the spaces between him. But, like when he'd been with Violet, it is an expression of love.

Eddie pulls away, only just. Richie lifts one hand, and places it over Eddie's, to keep it there, cradling his face. Eddie wouldn't ever dream of taking it away.

He kisses Richie's forehead. He kisses the corner of Richie's eye. He kisses right beside Richie's nose. And then Richie tilts his head back, and his lips hover over Richie's mouth.

Oh.Eddie's lips are parted too, and they breathe, warm, soft breaths, in the small, _so, so_ small gap between them. All Eddie has to do is sway, just a little bit forward, and his lips brush over Richie's. A caress. It's so gentle, a barely-there touch, but it sets Eddie aflame.

He feels dizzy. It's hard not to think that he's still on the sidewalk right now, knocked out by mullet-boy's sneaker, and that's he dreamt this whole thing. Because he's never felt so _wanted_ before. He's never felt wanted before, period. But...Richie's desire for him is a tangible thing. Something Eddie could cup in his hands. Something that could fill his heart.

Richie angles his face up, and kisses him.

_Oh._

It's slow, sweet - Richie knows it's Eddie's first kiss, and is being careful with him. It is Eddie's lips slotted between Richie's, it is Richie's hand tightening on his hip, it is a heat in Eddie's stomach.

It is good, _so good._ It's like his dream, but better, but _real._ God, he should've been kissing people this whole time. He should've been kissing _Richie_ this whole time. How do people not become addicted to the soft movement of someone's lips against their own? He could live like this. Sore, tired, cupping Richie's face in the back of his car.

But he's never been kissed before, never been held like this before, never been desired so greatly before, and he needs more.

So he swings his leg over Richie's and straddles his lap, so he presses his mouth harder against Richie's and breathes him in, his tongue swiping out between his lips, hungry.

Richie pulls back, laughs softly. "Hey," he murmurs, eyes hooded, trying _very_ hard to tear themselves away from Eddie's mouth. "Let me guide you."

And he curls his fingers beneath Eddie's jaw, presses his thumb to Eddie's chin, and he kisses Eddie again. And it's _more._ It's Richie sucking Eddie's lip into his mouth. It's Eddie sucking Richie's lip into his own. It's their lips parting against each other, it's Richie's tongue swiping along Eddie's tongue, it's a hundred shivers down Eddie's spine. It's hungry and desperate and all-consuming.

But Eddie's been starved. You go so long without being touched, without being kissed or held or caressed, that you begin to ache for it. And so Eddie aches for it now. Even with Richie's mouth on him. He needs more. More skin on skin. More of Richie touching him.

But he doesn't know how to ask. He doesn't know if he _should_ ask.

 _Richie, would you please touch me?_ Is that what he would say? _Touch me, Richie, please._

He doesn't know, so he doesn't say anything. Instead, he wraps his arms around Richie's neck, pulls their bodies flush together, and straightens his back, sitting right up on his knees. It lifts his sweater up from his hips a little. He raises his shoulders, and the sweater pulls up even further, exposing his hips completely.

He hopes that the hands that hold him there will now touch his skin. But, it appears, Richie is a gentleman. And his hands rise with the sweater, until he's holding Eddie just below his ribs.

_God, just fucking touch me, Richie._

One of Richie's pinkies drops below the sweater's hem, and grazes Eddie's waist.

Eddie gasps into Richie's mouth.

Richie stiffens, loosens his grip on him, and puts some space between them.

"I'm sorry," Richie says. "But, as much as I'd like to kiss you all night - and I'd really, _really,_ like to - I'm kinda in a lot of pain right now."

"Oh." Eddie blinks. His kiss-drunkedness slowly begins to melt away; his own aches and pains coming back to him. The terrible pain at the back of his head, his forehead, the dull ache of his shin. "Of course. We should get going. You really need some proper bandages."

Richie smiles gratefully, gives Eddie's hip a squeeze before Eddie climbs off his lap. He feels cold, without Richie pressed up against him, but doesn't say anything. He feels cold for a different reason, too, as he watches Richie climb back into the drivers seat, climbs into shotgun himself. Because now that his thoughts are not consumed by everything-Richie, they have fallen onto someone else.

Richie starts the car, the headlights igniting the empty road in front of them, the engine roaring into the quiet night.

"What?" Eddie asks, because Richie doesn't drive but just sits there, looking at him.

"Oh, nothing," Richie says, grinning. "Just thinking about how I got to kiss the cutest boy in the world."

Eddie blushes, can't bite back his smile.

"I _would_ say 'in the universe' but I'm pretty sure there they are some pretty fucking adorable aliens out there," Richie adds, teasing.

"Please don't tell me you're one of those people who would fuck an alien," Eddie says.

"I am one hundred percent one of those people who would fuck an alien," Richie replies.

"Then have you tried fucking yourself?"

Richie throws his head back in laughter.

And it _should_ be a nice moment, a moment where they laugh together, giddy, still high off each other's lips. But Eddie's mind is somewhere else. With someone else.

And he can't shake it. Even when Richie reaches across the centre console and takes Eddie's hand, holding it as he drives. He can't get rid of it, even when Richie pulls up in front of his house, and brings Eddie's hand to his mouth. He's stricken by it, when Richie murmurs, against Eddie's knuckles, "I want to take you out on a date. A proper one. Where we dress up all nice and I buy you flowers and shit."

"I'd like that," Eddie replies. And he _would,_ he so really would. But...but...

Richie kisses his hand. Eddie opens the car door. And it follows him all the way to his front door. It fights against the butterflies, the smile on his face, the happiness he feels over Richie.

Because while this is what he wants, while Richie is who he wants.

He knows this will hurt Violet.


	5. fallout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok. 
> 
> i rlly wanted this to be the last chapter but i mean. it was getting so long and ive been struggling a bit to write the actual ending and i wanted to update before we all grew old and died so. im adding another chapter. aGAIN. but the next one will be the last. i promise. 
> 
> im sorry this took so long!!!

Richie looks quite the sight when he walks through his front door that night, because he is bruised, bloodied and bandaged - the poster boy of throwing yourself into a fight and barely punching your way out.

And he has a dreamy smile on his face.

Violet, who is on the couch watching TV, does what she usually does whenever Richie walks through the door: she looks over, sees that he's not Eddie, and looks away. Only, this time she does a double take, grips the back of the couch with one hand, and gapes at him.

"Oh my god," she says. "What happened to you?"

Eddie happened. Eddie, with his big brown eyes and soft fluffy hair. Eddie, with his smart mouth and pink lips. Eddie, who had sat on his lap like he was made to sit there. Eddie, who had _kissed_ him, enthusiastically, passionately, hungrily. Eddie, Eddie, _Eddie._

"Are you okay?” Violet asks. “Did you get into a fight?"

Oh, right. She is asking about his wounds, and not the lovesick smile curved along his mouth.

"Yeah," Richie replies. Violet pulls herself off the couch and approaches him slowly, mouth worried, eyes concerned and trained on his bruises. "With Billy. He got me pretty good, I gotta admit, but I managed to get some good punches in. A few, actually. Really fucking hurt my knuckles though." He's rambling, feels jittery. The adrenaline from the fight, from having Eddie's mouth against his, still hasn't worn off yet. Violet seems too focused on his injuries to pay his words any mind, gingerly reaches a hand out toward his make-shift bandage. "It was worth it, though. He was fucking beating up Eddie."

Violet pulls her hand away. " _Eddie?"_ she echoes, startled. "Oh my god. Is he okay? Why were you with _Eddie_? If you got him hurt, Richie, I swear to God..."

"Jesus, Vi, why do you always think the worst of me?" Richie asks, though he knows the answer. It's because he gives her no reason to think any better. "And I wasn't with him, I was gonna meet up with Billy to buy some weed, and Eddie was already there. Not that he was buying weed. I think he was just walking home. But he's alright. I swooped in and saved the day. I'm like Han Solo..."

Violet tunes out. She grabs him by the sleeve, drags him over to the kitchen, and sets him down on a stool by the counter. Then she rummages through the kitchen cupboards, pulls out a first aid kit, and seats herself down next to him.

"Well, I'm sorry you got hurt," she says. "But I'm glad you were there, to help Eddie."

"Me too," Richie replies. And, now, he holds all his rambly words in. Because if he were to speak any more, he'd end up saying something like, _I really care about him, Vi._ Or, _I know he's your best friend, but I kissed him in the back of my car._

He kind of wants to tell her, though, as he watches her sort through the kit, her dark brows furrowed, nose scrunched in a way that crinkles the sparse freckles along the bridge, under her eyes. Because she looks like ten year old Violet. Back when they were still friends, and would play Doctor and Patient (Richie was always the patient), back when people would always think they were twins, and Violet would say she wished they were.

They told each other everything back then.

And she deserves to know now.

But, Violet carefully peels the bandages from Richie's face, starts cleaning his wounds with proper disinfectant, says, "I'm still pissed at you, though," and Richie keeps all those words held in.

He winces at the sting of his cuts. "You're always pissed at me."

"Yeah, well, you make it pretty easy," Violet says. "I mean we _just_ had that argument about Macie, and you smoking weed, the other day, and you're _already_ running back to Billy for more. So I guess I have to prepare myself for you hanging out with my friends _yet_ again, too."

The whole Macie thing had been stupid; Richie had been upset over Eddie's date, and had needed a distraction.

Finding distractions in people is hard when you don't have any friends of your own, and when you get a cold satisfaction from spending time with your sister's.

Richie sighs. This whole thing is long and convoluted. A snowball growing larger and larger as it rolls down an icy mountainside. Fights, betrayal, jealousy. The ball keeps rolling. Until the only way he and Violet know how to speak to each other is through sharp words and tired arguments.

It feels like it's grown far too big to stop now.

"I'm sorry, Vi," he says. And it's genuine, though it's a Band-Aid on a broken bone. Because he misses her. Because he wishes he could fix this.

Violet tears open a packet of bandages with her teeth. "I'll know you're sorry when you stop doing it."

Richie thinks of how soft Eddie's lips had been, the warmth and weight of Eddie flush against him.  Maybe he could give up weed for Violet, and he could definitely stop hanging around Macie, but there's no way in hell he's not doing that again.

And it creates an avalanche.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Their date is planned in secret.

 _I'll pick you up on Thursday, at eight,_ Richie murmurs when they pass each other in the hallway - Violet only one room away. _You don't need to wear anything fancy, but dress warm._

The looks, the smiles, are shared in secret.

Richie's gaze will linger from across the room, Eddie's lips will dance at the edges whenever he catches it, and they both hide their blushes in their shoulders when Violet looks their way.

It is thrilling. It makes Eddie feel guilty.

On Thursday, Eddie spends the afternoon leisurely searching for an outfit in his cupboard. Humming along to the cassette playing over softly his stereo - made entirely of songs Richie's shown him. Because, much unlike the hours before his date with Wade, he is far more excited than nervous.

He goes with an outfit Richie has never seen him in before: overalls pulled over a soft white sweater. He sneaks into his mother's room and dabs her concealer over the bruise on his forehead - as he has done ever since he got it, to hide it from his mother.

And then he waits restlessly for eight o'clock.

Three nights ago, he dreamt that he was holding Richie's hand, and together they watched the sun set. As the sky delved into darkness, Richie glanced over at him, eyes shining with the moon. And his expression turned into the cruel, upturned, judgmental look that Eddie has been faced with his entire life. And he dropped Eddie's hand.

Two nights ago, he dreamt that he was leading Richie in a dance. And they spun and twirled and laughed around the lounge-room. And as Eddie spun beneath Richie's arm, Richie turned into Wade, grabbed Eddie's face forcefully, and pulled him into a rough kiss.

Last night, he dreamt that he was sighing into Richie's lips. Richie's hand gently carded through Eddie's hair. Their bodies moved together. Violet burst into the room, took one look at them, and burst into tears. And Eddie woke to the echo of her telling him she never wanted to see him again.

Tonight, Eddie gathers those anxieties up in his hands, and locks them away at the back of his heart. And when his clock beeps, eight o'clock, he leaves the house with his stomach flittering and swooping and twisting with eager anticipation. Not dread.

The night is cool and cloudy. The first thing Eddie notices, as the front door swings shut behind him, and the empty, shadowy street sits still in front of him, is the bitter wind that bites at his exposed skin. The breeze ruffles his hair, shuttles litter along the quiet road - Eddie watches discarded candy wrappers tumble along the asphalt, snag on the curb. He breathes in the cold air and it soothes over his pounding heart.

The second thing he notices is Richie's car. Pulled over, engine still rumbling, a few houses away. His heart leaps elatedly at the sight.

"Spaghetti man!" Richie greets. He's leant against the passenger door, only looking like a tall, dark figure, backlit by the car's headlights, from where Eddie stands. As Eddie gets closer, he can see that Richie, much like he himself had done, is wearing something Eddie hasn't seen before.

A black leather jacket.

There's something about it, the way it broadens his shoulders, the way it matches his black skinny jeans, and his black unruly hair. The way it comes together with the bruise on his cheek and the cuts on his knuckles to create a dishevelled bad boy look, that makes Eddie find it incredibly hot.

The heat in Eddie's stomach tells him that his body very much agrees.

But, instead of wearing the coy smirk, or cocky grin of a bad boy, Richie gets one look at Eddie up close and immediately becomes incredibly flustered.

"Holy shit," he blurts, eyes wide. It's hard to tell whether the redness on his cheeks is because of the cold, or because he's blushing. Probably both.

"What?" Eddie asks, glancing down at himself. Richie _also_ glances down along Eddie's body, up and down, up and down. He gapes a little, as though he's looking at something he's never seen before.

"I, um..." Richie obviously hadn't meant to say that out loud; if he was any redder, his cheeks would be on fire. "You just...you look really cute. Like really fucking cute."

Now, Eddie's face burns. He looks away, tugging at his overalls bashfully. Richie drinks in every movement like he's a man dying of thirst. "Thanks. You look really good, too."

"Seriously," Richie rambles on, immensely flushed, "You look so adorable I honestly think I might cry."

Eddie snorts, but his whole body bubbles with giddy laughter. Can hardly look Richie in the eye. "Shut up."

Richie scratches the back of his neck, almost shy. And it's laughable, really, how they're acting, considering they have literally made out in the back of Richie's car. But it's different now. They're not hyped up on adrenaline, or sneaking glances at each other from far away. They're here together, on the sidewalk, on this crisp Thursday night. And they're doing this.

Richie and Eddie are going on a date.

Richie opens the passenger side door for Eddie with a little bow. _"Your majesty."_

He has soft music playing over the car radio, and the heater turned on just right, and when he sits down, he doesn't drive. He reaches into the back seat and pulls out a bouquet of flowers.

"These are for you," he says softly. They are beautiful, and soft against Eddie's skin when he lifts them to his face and inhales their sweet scent.

"You don't have to do all this for me," Eddie replies, just as softly.

And now Richie grins. Looking less like a blushy mess, and more like a regular mess (which is to say more like _Richie)._ And he says, "Since your first ever date was so shitty, I've decided to make your second date an epic night of romance."

Eddie bites his bottom lip, smiles.

"So," Richie continues. He puts the car in drive. "Just sit back and relax my little Spaghetti, because I’m about to romance the shit out of you."

 

 

Richie's idea of romance consists of the following things:

A large hill that looks over the town's small drive-in. A foreign movie. A picnic blanket set on the grass, under the trees. Bunches of grapes, fancy cheeses he can't pronounce the names of, chocolate dipped strawberries. A starry night and a boy he likes.

Eddie settles down onto the picnic blanket, looks out at the glow of the large movie screen, beaming over the cars parked beneath it. Feels the wind on his face, the warmth of Richie sitting down next to him, and it has only just begun, but it's one of the best nights of his life.

For the first twenty minutes of the movie, they sit side by side, leaning back on their hands. Watching a soft and passionate romance unravel on the screen in front of them - and, as Richie's hand covers over Eddie's, right between them.

After a while, it becomes apparent they're both completely lost when it comes to the movie's actual plot, despite the subtitles there to guide them. And so Richie does funny voice overs for the characters, and they make up a silly plot of their own. And Eddie throws his head back and laughs up at the clouds drifting over the glittering sky, and the movie's music is a faint hum around them, and the trees sing in the breeze above them.

"I've always liked your laugh," Richie says, watching Eddie with a soft smile.

"You're one of the few people who can actually make me laugh," Eddie replies, with his cheeks dusted pink.

Richie looks quite pleased with that.

They try the fancy cheeses ("no blue cheese," Richie says, "because I know how much you hate it"), and then they chase those odd flavours down with the chocolate strawberries. And by the time they get to the grapes, they're laughing over about five things at once, and so they don't just eat them; instead they throw them at each other, and try to catch the grapes in their mouths.

Eddie catches nearly every one. Richie catches almost none, because Eddie keeps purposefully throwing the grapes at Richie's eyes and giggling about it.

They talk as Richie pulls out bottles of non-alcoholic cider (because they're both adverse to alcohol). About little things. Like: Eddie's favourite colour is green, the dark, earthy green of the leaves outside the Tozier's house, and Richie's favourite colour is the glowy, crimson pink the sky will sometimes turn at sunset.

("Really?" Eddie asks. "That's beautiful.") ("Okay, I lied, it's just orange," Richie admits. "But your favourite colour was so cool that it felt lame to say that.")

They both have a sweet tooth. Richie's broken three bones and Eddie's broken none. Richie used to have pet cat named Pringles who ran away when he was twelve. Eddie used to have a pet rock named Charlie who he angrily threw out of the car window while he was arguing with his mom when he was eleven.

If Richie could be any fictional character, he'd be Han Solo. ("Though, I basically already am. I mean, I have a cool jacket and I'm dating a Princess Leia.")

If Eddie could be any fictional character, he'd be any of Han Solo's enemies.

("That's such a Leia thing to say," laughs Richie). (Edie throws another grape at him).

And it is a date, and Richie looks lively and happy and beautiful under the moonlight, and Eddie's heart aches because of it. But it's also just time spent with his best friend.

"You know," Eddie says, when the night starts to calm. The movie reaching it's climax, the sky growing cloudier, darker. He and Richie lay on their backs, side by side, on the picnic blanket, trying to search for leftover stars. Eddie rolls over onto his stomach, lifts himself up on his forearms. "You and Violet were the first friends I ever had."

Richie lets his head loll onto the side, looks at Eddie. His hands on his stomach, his dark hair fanned out around his face. Eddie feels such comfort when he looks at him. It's Richie sitting in the driver's seat of his car, asking if Wade did anything to him, it's Richie's strong hands on his hips as they kiss in the backseat; with Richie, Eddie feels safe.

"No one ever liked me. People always thought I was weird. My mom...she sheltered me a lot as a kid. Told me everything would make me sick, told me I _was_ sick. So I became afraid of everything. I couldn't just play soccer on the grass like a normal kid, because I thought I'd have an allergic reaction and die." Eddie picks at the grass at the edge of the picnic blanket, very much _not_ having an allergic reaction and dying. "I was no fun. I mean, I'm still no fun. But I was worse as a kid."

"Hey, you're tons of fun," Richie argues. "How can someone who just spent five minutes throwing grapes in my eye be no fun?"

He smiles when Eddie laughs, but then becomes serious. Rolling over onto his side and poking Eddie's hip. "Your mom sounds shitty."

"Yeah," Eddie sighs. "She is." He rests his head on his arms, meets Richie's sad gaze. There's very little space between them. Faces so close that, even in the dark, Eddie can see the curl of Richie's dark, long lashes. The splattering of freckles over his nose. "I'm glad I have you."

It's his gentle words that shape Richie's gentle smile. Richie's eyes flicker over Eddie's face, and then he slowly reaches out and brushes a loose curl from Eddie's forehead. Eddie's eyes trained to Richie's face, Richie's eyes trained to his own hand. He lets his fingers trail down Eddie's temple, by the corner of his eye, along his cheek. A touch that is light, so gentle it almost tickles, like a breath against Eddie's skin. "I'm glad I have you too."

And when he leans in, Eddie decides that the stars aren't behind the clouds in the sky, they're right here, in Richie's eyes.

Something cold splatters on Eddie's cheek before their lips can touch.

Rain.

"Fuck," Richie grumbles, as more droplets fall. They run down Eddie's jaw and get caught in Richie's eyelashes. "Can we just...ignore the rain for a minute? I wanna kiss you so bad."

"I'm happy with that," Eddie replies.

And it starts to pour.

It's a mad rush to pack everything back up into the picnic basket. The two of them scrambling around, thick sheets of rain around them, hair already flattening to their foreheads, the nape of their necks. And then it's a mad rush back down the hill. Richie grabs Eddie's hand, and though their date was very rudely interrupted, they're laughing again. Slipping and stumbling, fingers locked together.

And when they get back to the car, Richie impulsively drops the picnic basket to his feet, cups Eddie's face, and kisses him.

It's wet and cold and Eddie's back hits the hard surface of the car door, but Richie's lips are soft. And his mouth is hot. And Eddie tugs Richie in closer by his jacket.

"I could kiss you all night," Richie murmurs against Eddie's lips.

"Kiss me in the car," Eddie mumbles back. "It's freezing out here."

Richie kisses him again, again, again, before he smirks. Cocky. "But rain kisses are the peak of romance."

Then he pulls away, snatches up the picnic basket and opens the car door, leaving Eddie gaping after him.

"Richie, if you planned this, I swear..."

Richie only laughs.

"So you knew it was going to rain? If I get a cold it'll be all your fault!"

They find themselves, once again, making out in the backseat of Richie's car.

Eddie pushes Richie against the seat and climbs onto his lap. And they laugh into each other's mouths and brush the wet hair off each other's faces. And Richie's hands rest on Eddie's thighs - Eddie can feel them burn through the denim of his overalls - and Eddie's hands fist into the fabric of Richie's shirt. And they kiss soft and slow and sweet.

That want for _more_ still blazes low in Eddie's stomach, but the gentle, tender movement of Richie's lips against his, the feeling of Richie running his hands up Eddie's thighs, up along his hips and waist. Slipping beneath Eddie's overalls to rest on the back of his soft sweater, is almost enough to sate him for now.

Key word being _almost._ Because when Eddie runs his own hands up along Richie's firm chest, over his broad shoulders, rakes his nails down Richie's stomach (making Richie hum into Eddie's mouth, which... _hot_ ), Eddie wants nothing more than to slip his hands under Richie's shirt and do it all over his bare skin.

He licks into Richie's mouth, he squeezes his thighs tight around Richie's thighs, he breathes, _"Richie,"_ like that'll somehow be able to convey his _want._

Richie shifts his hands to Eddie's lower back, still beneath his overalls, and tugs Eddie flush against him. An embarrassing whine leaves Eddie's throat, sounds as needy as he feels, as Richie's lips trail down to his jaw. 

 _This..._ Richie's mouth is hot and hungry on Eddie's neck... _this is what he wants. This, this, this._

Eddie tilts his head back to give Richie better access to his throat, and Richie licks a stripe up along his neck, tasting raindrops on his skin. Breath catching, Eddie tangles his fingers in Richie's hair, coaxing a groan from Richie when he tugs at it. _Hot._ Richie's hands dip even lower, sneaking under the hem of Eddie's sweater, so his warm, rough hands graze across Eddie's bare skin.

The noise that Eddie makes is shameful, to the say the least.

"Fuck, Eddie," Richie groans into his neck. "I can't get enough of you."

 _You can have more of me,_ Eddie thinks, body aflame. _You can have all of me._

In his head an image plays, fuzzy, from a dream: he is beneath Richie, their bodies moving as one.

Now, Eddie slips his hands under the hem of Richie’s shirt. The coldness of his hands against the warm skin of Richie’s stomach makes Richie jolt, and then hum into Eddie’s neck.  

In Eddie’s head, Violet enters the room, sees them together, and bursts into tears.

Eddie stiffens, slipping his hands out from Richie’s shirt. Richie lifts his head, their faces only a breath apart. Studies Eddie with eyes hooded, dark.

“You okay?” he asks, nudging his nose against Eddie’s.

“Yeah,” Eddie breathes. And kisses him.

Richie lets his lips find Eddie’s neck again. Only this time, he touches his lips to a spot, lets his tongue dart out between his teeth, and sucks.

And, as Eddie moans, the blurry image of Violet sobs.

 _“How could you do this to me?” she cries._ Eddie tries to will her away. _“I thought you were my friend.”_ He tries and tries and…

"Wait."

Richie moves as soon as the word leaves Eddie's mouth. Tearing his hands out from beneath Eddie's sweater, leaning back against the seat.

"Sorry," Richie blurts. "Shit, sorry, Eddie. We're moving way too fast, aren't we?"

"N-no..." Well, maybe they are, Eddie wouldn't know. All he knows is that being this close to Richie has revealed how incredibly touch-starved he is. So much so that the words 'too fast' aren't even in his vocabulary. He sets his hands on Richie's shoulders, thumb pressed to his collarbone. "It's fine, really, it's not that, it's just...Violet."

Richie's hands rests again on Eddie's thighs. "...Oh."

"I just feel weird about doing this behind her back," Eddie admits. "If she found out..."

"She won't. We'll keep it a secret."

"What if she ends up hating me? I mean, Macie likes you and Violet can hardly stand her. And Abigail's nowhere near as bad but she's on thin fucking ice. If Violet finds out I've been dating you and lying about it she might not ever trust me again."

"Fuck." Richie's head tilts back against the seat, exposing the column of his throat (Eddie really wants to kiss it. _Not right now, libido_ ). "This is all my fault. I fucked everything up, between me and Violet. And now I've fucked everything up for us too."

Eddie waits, searching Richie's face - his kiss-red lips, his frizzying hair - in the dark. Richie rubs small circles into Eddie's thighs, takes a deep breath.

"I just... didn't have any friends of my own growing up. I was such a loud and obnoxious kid, so, I mean, it made sense. But for some reason Violet's friends always seemed to like me. I think I was more bearable when I was around her." Richie smiles, self-deprecating. "Like Violet kinda...smoothed me out."

Eddie can see that, in a world where Richie and Violet get along, Richie sparks the fuse in Violet's heart to bring her to life, and Violet always knows the right time to blow Richie's out.

"I don't know," Richie sighs. "I got way too carried away with the attention her friends would give me, and sometimes we'd hang out and shit. Without Violet. And I got so angry at her when she asked me to stop, because I didn't have anyone else. I felt like she was being selfish, wanted me to be alone, but...shit, I was hanging out with her friends _without_ her. That's pretty fucked up, isn't it?"

Richie stares down at his hand, where it rests on Eddie's thigh, and his expression is pained. It seems that, until now, Richie has only lived it: the fights and the jealousy and the loss of his and Violet's relationship. Has never looked back on it like he is now, hasn't laid it out and explained it. And his brows furrow, pokes his tongue into the inside of his cheek. Because things seem so simple when you speak them, once they just become words. You take all the emotion out of it, all the late nights fighting in the darkened kitchen, all the heightened anger and empty sadness. And you can see it for what it really is.

"Fuck, it's so stupid," Richie says. "All this arguing because I wanted people to like me but couldn't get friends of my own. But...it just kept snowballing. Into what it is now. Into the messy relationship we have."

Eddie gently holds his fingers over Richie's pulse point on his neck, can feel his heart beat. Richie lifts his head, and his pulse quickens as he searches Eddie's face. Nervous for the reaction he'll find. Disgust, judgement, resentment. But Eddie feels none of those things. He feels sadness. For Richie. Because he knows what it's like to feel lonely, and the happiness Richie must have felt, when he was considered finally, to someone, as a friend. For Violet. Because Richie's attempts at finding friendship left her lonely.

"Were you close?" Eddie asks. "Before all of this?"

"Me and Violet? Yeah. We were."

Quietly, Eddie asks, "Do you miss her?"

Richie's face softens. "Yeah," he whispers. "All the time. I wish we could go back to how we were, but I just don't know how."

"I'm sure she misses you, too," Eddie says. "I bet if you talked to her..."

"Violet and I don't talk, we just fight," Richie cuts in with a half-hearted snort. He slides his hands back up to Eddie's hips. "And I don't know...it'd feel wrong trying to apologise to her while I'm secretly dating you."

Eddie chews his bottom lip, considering. Richie's pulse stutters under Eddie's fingertips.

"Please tell me you're not thinking what I think you're thinking..." Richie says.

"Maybe we should wait," Eddie says. "Until you fix things with Violet."

"And just stop dating?" Richie asks, tense. "Eddie, I'd be fixing _years_ of damage. It'd be _months_ before we could date. Maybe years. Maybe never."

"But if you want to fix things, then surely she would, too," Eddie points out, hopefully. "And if you do this...if we wait... you can get your close relationship with Violet back, Violet and I will stay friends, and we can date guilt-free and openly." He gives Richie a barely-there smile. "Everyone wins."

It sounds so idealistic. But Eddie clings to it. Because he wants both of them. Because he's selfish. Because he loves them both so intensely that he can't have one without the other.

Richie grapples with it for a moment. "I don't know...I feel like even if she forgives me, she'll still be pissed when we start dating."

"Maybe," Eddie admits.

"And I really wanna fucking date you, Eddie," Richie continues. "We shouldn't let Violet stop us." 

"We won't," Eddie promises. "But we should at least _try_ to date in a way that doesn't hurt her. She's been hurt enough."

Everything weighs down heavily on Richie. He processes, hesitates, and then tries, helplessly, "Eddie..."

"This date was everything I could've hoped for," Eddie says. "But I ruined it because of all this fucking guilt. I want to date you without all that. I don't want to think of Violet while I'm kissing you."

The words sink below Richie's skin, he pauses. Because he feels the same guilt.

Eddie cups Richie's face in his hands. " _Please,_ Richie."

And Richie eyes are sad, and reluctant, and his face falls, and he tilts forward and presses his forehead to Eddie's shoulder.

Eddie curls his fingers in Richie's hair, Richie winds his arms around Eddie's back and holds him close. Breathes him in. Memorises the feeling of Eddie in his arms.

And he doesn't need to say it. Eddie can feel it. The kind of melancholy that doesn't bring forth tears, but a hollow feeling in your stomach.

In the dark shadows of the car, with the rain pattering softly on the roof, and the dim moonlight leaking in through the windows, their lips find each other for one last desperate kiss.

In the dark shadows of the car, they decide to wait.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Eddie hardly see Richie at all over the next couple days. Richie is almost never home whenever Eddie's over, and when he is, he stays in his room.

Which, is probably good, because Eddie has found that the only thing worse than not being able to kiss someone you want to kiss is not being able to kiss someone you've kissed _before._ It feels like each morning he wakes with his body buzzing in eager anticipation - wanting to feel Richie's hands, his mouth - and Eddie has to remind it sadly that that's not going to happen.

At least, not yet.

"Richie told me he's giving up smoking," Violet tells Eddie, four days after he and Richie's date. "Weed and cigarettes." She turns up her nose, sceptical. "I wonder how long he'll last."

"Macie told me in Geography that Richie said he's not going to hang out with her and Abigail anymore," Violet tells Eddie, a week after he and Richie's date. "She was all upset, said he basically broke up with her even though they were only friends." Violet tucks her hair behind her ear, thoughtful. "It's kinda weird. But, you know, about time."

"Richie and I were talking after school the other day," Violet tells Eddie, twelve days after he and Richie's date. "And, well, you know, how I told you about how he sort of...steals my friends sometimes. Well, he apologised. Said he felt terrible about the whole thing. Wants to put it behind us." She stares down at her hands, conflicted. "I don't even know what to think."

Eddie wishes he could do the thinking for her, could make her forgive Richie, could close the rift between them for good. He understands her hesitation, though: a single apology must feel too small for all the years of tense rivalry. But it's not a single apology, because throwing out his cigarettes, cutting ties with her friends, even little things like making Violet dinner and offering to drive her into town, they're all apologies too.

Two weeks after Richie and Eddie's date, Richie stops hiding away in his room whenever he's home. And he'll join Eddie and Violet in watching TV, or will eat dinner with them, or at least just make his presence known.

He doesn't talk much when he's with them, or stay long, like he's only testing the waters of being around Violet, but Violet never tells him to leave, which is good, and they don't fight, which is _very_ good.

But being around Richie is torture, which is, obviously, _bad._

They're back to lingering glances across the room, only these gazes are the weighted kind, the kind that you can feel all over your skin. And, sometimes, they'll touch. Reach into the cutlery draw at the same time and let their hands brush. Sit close enough together on the couch that their knees nudge. Walk down the hallway at the same time so their shoulders bump.

It's ridiculous, this game they're playing. It's dangerous. Eddie will laugh a little too hard at one of Richie's dumb jokes, smother his amusement into his shoulder; Richie will watch him, a brightness to his eyes; Violet will look between them with a frown on her face.

"My mom keeps telling me to cut my hair," Eddie will sigh, flopping back on the couch.

"Don't. It suits you like that," Richie will reply, from where he's looking for food in the kitchen. "Looks good."

Violet, where she stands between them, will give Richie a weird look, and say, "Well...I mean, Richie's right."

And Richie will stutter, flustered, as he realises what he said. Will give Eddie an apologetic look behind Violet's back, because they're about ten seconds from blowing this whole thing.

It's just, if there's anything this whole 'waiting' thing has done, it's reveal to Eddie exactly how much he _likes_ Richie. Because now he's pining. The kind of heart-aching, wistful-sighing kind of painful. And Richie is pining, too. So every time their eyes meet, all they can feel is how much they _want_ each other.

It's fucking painful.

Nearly three weeks after Richie and Eddie's date, three weeks after they decided to wait, Richie casually sidles up next to Eddie in the kitchen, and slips a sheet of paper into his hand.

It's how exactly how you'd expect: every nerve ending in Eddie's hand blazes where Richie touched him, they share a sparing, but weighted glance, Eddie's stomach drops to his feet

"We should probably pump the air mattress up soon," Violet calls from the couch. Startles Richie and Eddie from their little RichieandEddie daze. "Before it gets too late," Violet continues, without bothering to look away from the TV, one leg hanging over the armrest. Because Eddie is sleeping over tonight, for the first time in a long time.

"Okay," Eddie replies distractedly. He glances sidelong at Richie, who gives him a small smile back.

"Also we should make some popcorn," says Violet.

Richie disappears down the hallway. Eddie unravels the small sheet of paper.

It reads: _Midnight._

 

* * *

 

 

_12: 36 am._

 

The sound of Violet's soft snores fill the dark air of her bedroom, the _whish, whish_ of the wind against the trees fills the dark air of the night outside.  Tucked away in his sleeping bag, Eddie makes no sound, and stares up at the shadowy ceiling.

Violet only fell asleep five minutes ago. He's trying to figure out the best time to sneak out of the room without immediately waking her back up.

He waits ten minutes, and then he can't wait anymore. Impatient. Eager. He slips from his sleeping bag and tiptoes out into the hall.

Richie is waiting for him in the kitchen.

Hip against the counter, Richie looks gentle in the soft light coming from the lamp in the lounge-room. He's wearing a jacket lazily thrown over a loose-fitting sleepshirt, checkered pyjama pants pooling down to his feet. Eddie's stomach coils when Richie's dark but sleepy eyes meet his.

"Sorry I took so long," Eddie whispers. "Violet only just fell asleep."

"It's okay," Richie replies. Then he hands Eddie one of his jackets, which he had been holding, and leads him towards the back door.

Eddie tugs the jacket on as they step out into the cold night. It's far too big for him, the hem reaching about mid-thigh, the sleeves falling over his hands. But it's warm and, when Eddie buries his nose in his shoulder, it smells musky, like Richie.

The bitter wind nips at Eddie's face, feels like ice water down his throat, cooling his lungs, as they walk into the trees. They stand like tall, towering shadows around them, leaves rustling and swaying and dancing. Beneath Eddie's bare feet, the grass, spotted silver with the moon, feels damp, and chilled. His toes curl into the dank dirt.

"Why do I feel like you're going to murder me," Eddie jokes, eyes trained on the way Richie's nightly hair curls over the pale expanse of his nape.

Leaves and twigs crunch underfoot. Richie throws Eddie a grin over his shoulder, eyes like moonlight. "You'd kick my ass before I could even try."

Eddie laughs, _"True",_ and they come to a halt in front of a thick-trunked tree.

It feels so good, to be here, out in the fresh air, with Richie smiling at him. It'd feel even better, if Richie were to push him against the tree and kiss him, but he can't have everything.

It also feels charged. A buzz in the air. This is the first time they've been alone together in three weeks, and now they stand here. Bundled up in their pyjamas and Richie's jackets, cheeks flushed, smiles bashful, and gazes lingering, and they're both well aware that they could do... _anything._ That no one's around to see them.

Richie is the first to look away, clearing his throat awkwardly. Eddie blinks. They _could_ do anything. But they shouldn't.

"So, I don't know if Violet's said anything, but we sorta talked to each other about...everything," Richie says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He smiles. " _Without_ fighting. It went really well. I apologised and, I mean, she hasn't quite forgiven me yet, but she definitely hates me less." He looks proud at that success. Eddie returns his smile.

"Definitely," Eddie agrees.

"And I was kinda thinking..." Richie continues. He looks at Eddie with a wince, like he's already anticipating a bad reaction. "I think you should tell her you like me. Warm her up to the idea."

Eddie falters, leaning back against the tree trunk. _"What?_ " he says. "Already?"

"Eddie, I don't think I can _not_ date you for much longer, " Richie says earnestly. "Plus, I think Violet will really appreciate the honesty, even if she won't necessarily like what you're saying. Macie and all that never told her they liked me, Violet just kinda found out, and it only made it worse."

The rough texture of the tree's bark digs into Eddie's back, even though his jacket, scratches the base of his head. He presses back into it, considering. Richie watches him nervously. Curls wild in the wind, bottom lip between his teeth, tired eyes the same colour as the starry sky. His rumpled clothes hang loosely off his lanky frame. He looks really cute, when all he's sleepy like this. Eddie not sure how long he can go without dating him either.

"Okay," Eddie says. "I'll give it a try."

Richie smiles triumphantly. And he moves forward, like he's going to give Eddie a high-five, or a hug, or a kiss, but Eddie stiffens, and he pulls himself back at the last second. His smile turns sheepish, which only makes him look ten times cuter.

Eddie can't really help himself. He blurts, "You look really cute, when you're all sleepy like this."

Richie's smile drops. Eddie's face burns red.

"Shit, Eddie," Richie says, eyes wide. "You can't say cute like that..."

"Sorry, I -"

"...it makes me really wanna kiss you."

"Oh." Eddie's stomach does a little flip. And he raises his shoulders, buries his mouth in the fabric of his jacket to hide the little pleased smile on his face.

"Don't snuggle up in my jacket like that either," Richie says, almost pleading. "It just makes me wanna kiss you more."

"I think your problem is that you just always want to kiss me," Eddie replies. And his tone is flirty, sly. Cheeks pink and smile cheeky. Which is _so_ not helping the situation. Because if they kiss now, they know they won't be able to stop themselves. And they're supposed to wait, to _wait._

"Fuck," Richie groans, tipping his head back up at the night sky. Eddie's eyes longingly trace the shadows lining Richie's throat. "Eddie..."

"Sorry," Eddie replies quickly. "Sorry. I'm making things worse. We're waiting. We're waiting."

Richie nods, looking a bit like he's gone through a mild life crisis. They've been apart for too long, are looking for a relief to this desirous, yearning ache. But they can't ease it just yet. And so it fills the air between them with ravenous tension.

"Just, tell Violet, okay?" Richie says. 

"I will." Eddie nods. Richie mimics the movement. And when he stops, his gaze drops to Eddie's mouth. And Eddie has to turn away and head back to the house, before he does something stupid.

He sleeps in Richie's jacket.

 

 

The following morning, the kitchen is filled with the soft golden light of morning, and three very tired looking teenagers.

Eddie settles on a stool at the kitchen island, and blushes at Richie, who is sitting up on the counter and grinning at him. Richie looks excited, swings his legs so his bare feet hit back against the cupboards, taps his fingers against the countertop. Like he expects this whole thing to go off without a hitch. Like it’s only a matter of days until they can date again.

Eddie does not share this excitement.

Looking at Violet now, her long hair stuffed into a low messy bun, her tongue poking into the inside of her cheek as she makes them all coffee, he feels nervous

How is he going to tell her?

 _When_ is he going to tell her?

Fuck, what should he even _say?_

Best case scenario is that he’ll say something like, “Hey, Violet, I have a crush on Richie. But it doesn’t mean that I like you any less. You’re my best friend and I love you.” And she’ll reply with a hug, maybe even a kiss on the cheek, and say, “Oh, Eddie, I love you, too. And I’m happy you were honest about it. You know, if you and Richie ever get married, we’ll be brother and sister in law!”

The more realistic scenario is that Eddie will stammer out, “I like Richie,” and Violet will look hurt and her voice will go tight and she’ll say, “Not you _too.”_

Eddie tries to convey this nervousness through his facial expressions to Richie, but Violet turns around to face them, so they look away from each other quickly.

“Hey,” Violet says. Her gaze has landed on Eddie, and she studies him with a frown. “Is that Richie’s jacket?”

Oh shit. Eddie looks down at himself, torso wrapped up in Richie’s too-big jacket. He forgot to take it off before getting out of bed this morning.

Oh fuck. His gaze darts frantically over to Richie, who looks as though he can’t decide whether to be alarmed or smug over the fact that Eddie is still wearing his clothes.

“Yeah, um. I got cold last night,” Eddie stammers. “And I found this lying around.” He shrugs it off, bunches it up, and throws it at Richie. “It smells terrible.”

“I bet,” Violet snorts, at the same time Richie replies, offended, _“Hey!”_

It’s a lie of course, Eddie could drown in the Richie-scent of that jacket. But he still catches Richie gingerly sniffing the jacket a few moments later, like he’s making sure it doesn’t smell too bad. (He also wants to know if it smells like Eddie too, after he slept in it, but Eddie doesn’t know that).

Violet looks between them. And it’s quick. Her eyebrow raises, questioning, and then falls. And her expression goes blank. And she goes back to the coffee.

Eddie wonders if she has guessed, or is close to guessing, what is going on between him and Richie. He wonders if she has her suspicions, but lets them drop, like her curious expression, because she doesn’t want them to be true.

His nerves mutate into anxiety.

 

 

Later that morning, once they’ve had breakfast, Violet announces that Richie needs to drive them to the outlet stores just outside of town. Because it's their aunt's birthday this week, and Violet wants to get her something nice.

"And you have to come down and see her with me this week," Violet tells Richie. "We're gonna spend her birthday with her."

Richie groans, a bit like a child, "Do I have to?"

"Yeah, you do," Violet says. "She's doing so much for us, Richie. Helping us financially. The least you can do is spend a little time with her."

"Yeah, well, where was all this help when mom reached out to her after dad left?" Richie grumbles. Violet locks her jaw, but doesn't reply. It seems like an argument they've had a hundred times before, and Eddie realises that this feud between them is more than just jealousy over friendships, that Richie and Violet are two opposing sides. It's going to take a lot to bring them together.

Nonetheless, Richie agrees to both taking them shopping, and seeing his aunt. (Because he realises that it’s a good opportunity to keep fixing things with Violet, and because Eddie gives him a warning look when Richie continues to complain). And so they all pile into Richie's car and turn the music up loud and drive out of town.

The outlet store complex is _huge._ Eddie’s so used to the littleness of Derry, the cramped movie theatre and tiny clothing stores, that he openly gapes at the large, almost warehoused-sized stores in front of him. They have to pull up to a sign out the front with a map on it, so Violet can find the store she’s looking for.

Richie turns around to face Eddie as soon as she leaves the car.

“Have you told her yet?” he asks. Curls falling into his bright eyes and a smile on his face. He doesn’t wear his glasses anymore, because they were broken in the fight, but he still manages to look dorky without them.

“Obviously not,” Eddie snorts.

Richie rests his chin on the shoulder of the car seat, pouts. “Oh. I thought that whole jacket thing was like, a whole bit that was going lead into you telling her, you know…like your warm up act.”

“No, I just slept in it and forgot to take it off,” Eddie replies.

“You really slept in it?” Richie asks, and if his eyes got any wider, or his smile got any bigger, there’d be nothing else left of his face.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, and he is not smiling. He’s worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. “And I almost blew this whole thing for us. I don’t want her to guess before I can tell her. I really don’t want to hurt her, Richie.”

Richie presses his lips together, thoughtful. “Leave it to me.”

They go to a cosmetics store, which isn’t quite as big as the other stores, but, with its high ceiling and bright, white fluorescent lights, long shelves and colourful displays, feels never-ending. Violet leads a curious Eddie and chatty Richie past rows of hair products and through the rows of make-up. Granted, the boys aren’t much help, even though Violet seems adamant about asking their opinion on various products. And they maybe get a _little_ distracted with the testers: Violet tries matching a foundation to her skin tone, Eddie tries some strawberry flavoured lip gloss, but no one complains.

"I look hot as fuck," comes Richie's voice from next to them, as Violet tries the strawberry lip gloss at Eddie’s request. (It tastes really good, okay). They turn at the same time: Richie has layered red lipstick over his mouth, and his chin, and, somehow, his nose.

"Oh my god," Violet says, amused. Eddie bursts out laughing.

"Ignore the mistakes," Richie says, covering his chin and nose. "And _tell_ me I don't look sexy."

"You don't look sexy," Violet deadpans, at the same moment Eddie replies, "It's all a mistake."

Richie lowers his hands. "Yeah, I walked right into both of those."

(They find some make-up wipes, which they open straight away, so Richie can clean off the lipstick. It leaves his lips tinted red, and Eddie has to admit it's a little sexy).

Eventually, they find what they, or really, what _Violet_ was looking for: a fancy looking perfume that she knows her aunt likes. Only, Violet takes one look at the price tag and balks.

"Holy shit," she says. "This better be infused with the Queen's B.O or some shit at _that_ price."

“That’d be gross,” Eddie says. “The Queen would smell like old lady. Which is gross.”

Richie doesn’t say anything. He is looking between the perfume, the two girls manning the check out, Eddie, Violet, and back, contemplative.

"Leave it to me," he says finally, snatching the perfume from Violet's hands. "I'm the king of haggling."

"You can't haggle at a store like this," Violet argues.

"Yeah? Says who?" Richie asks. "Did God write, 'You can't haggle at stores like this' in the Holy Bible? No, he didn't. So if it's not in the Bible, then I'm allowed to do it."

Violet looks like she's trying very hard not to laugh. "You're not even Christian."

"Blasphemy," Richie says. “Besides, with my charm and wit, I can get any store to change its policies. I’ll have those two girls melting into my hands. Because I’m gonna flirt with them. Because I’m single. And not interested in anybody.”

Eddie winces. Was that… Richie’s attempt at trying to throw Violet off of the idea that he and Richie are interested in each other? It hurt to listen to.

Even Violet seems to be cringing. “Okay, then, weirdo,” she says, and then he takes off toward the check out.

And the scene looks like this: an overconfident Richie leaning flirtily against the counter, the two female employees giggling and blushing at his attempt at sweet-talk, and Eddie and Violet standing a little way away, arms crossed and matching unimpressed-but-amused-and-also-surprised-that-it-seems-to-be-working expressions painted across their faces.

When Richie saunters back to them, his smile is five shades of cocky.

"Did it work?" Eddie asks, sceptically.

"No," Richie replies. "We have to pay asking price." Eddie and Violet exchange grins that read ‘ _Obviously’._ Richie holds up a slip of paper between two of his fingers, grins. "But I did get that blonde girl's number."

“You’re joking.” Violet takes the paper from Richie’s hand. _Call me,_ it reads, under a phone number, with neatly drawn hearts around the words. “You’re not joking.”

Richie looks incredibly pleased with himself; he had whipped out his best flirting skills to manage that. But he tears the paper in half without a second thought, giving Eddie a wink, when Violet’s not looking.

 

 

And though the rest of the afternoon consists of the three of them wandering from store to store, searching fruitlessly for a nice present they can actually afford, it's fun. Richie and Violet bicker, but don't fight. Eddie and Richie tease each other like friends. And Violet actually laughs at some of Richie's bad jokes. Eddie wishes he could hang out with both of them like this all the time. He also wishes that he had savoured this moment more.

Because this is where everything goes wrong.

It happens while Eddie and Violet are waiting for Richie outside a public bathroom. Above, the sky is rolling with dark grey clouds, soft rain pattering onto the sidewalks. Undercover, Eddie watches the rain stain the concrete only a few inches from his feet. The only sound he can hear is Violet rummaging through her shopping bags. Until he hears his voice.

"Eddie? Violet? Hey."

Before them, holding his hand up to protect his eyes from the rain, the shoulders of his shirt damp, stands Wade.

Fate works in mysterious ways, Eddie decides. Sometimes, you find a lover in a best friend. And sometimes, you find a guy who tried to coerce you into kissing him at an outlet store just outside of town.

At the sound of their names, Violet looks up so quickly she almost drops her bags. Her expression immediately darkens. "I'd keep walking if I were you."

Wade's gaze doesn't shift from Eddie's face. His whole body rigid, eyes nervous. The sight of him makes Eddie's stomach churn, like he's still on that couch with Wade's hand on his knee.

"I just want to talk," Wade says, pleadingly. "And apologise."

"I don't really want to hear it," Eddie says. He'd much rather Wade walk away and never bother him again. So he can put it all behind him, so he doesn't have to relive that feeling in his chest when Wade had him backed against the wall.

"Eddie, please, I - "

"He said he doesn't want to hear it," Violet interrupts, and Wade breaks off with his mouth opening and closing helplessly. He runs his hand over his cropped hair, blinking rapidly to keep the rain from his eyes. Rain rolls down his cheeks and drips from his chin.

"If you could just give me a second chance," he tries. "I promise I can make it up to you, Eddie. I just made a mistake, and I'm sorry. Let me take you on another date, we can -"

"Please just leave me alone," Eddie says. "I'm not interested."

"He couldn't be _less_ interested," Violet adds. And it's an unnecessary addition, but Eddie is sure that Violet has been fantasising about having this type of confrontation with Wade ever since Eddie's terrible date, so Eddie just finds it incredibly endearing.

Wade, on the other hand, has dropped his sad, soggy, desperate persona. And he looks between them with his nostrils flared.

"I think you should stay out of this, Violet," he says.

"Well, I think you should have left about three minutes ago," Violet says. "But I guess we don't always get what we want."

"You're not part of this at all," Wade replies icily. "Like, shit, you're acting like I _hurt_ Eddie or something. We just had a bad first date and I think if we have another..."

"I don't _want_ to go on another date with you," Eddie says. And he says it so firmly, so strongly, that Wade jolts. Affronted. Irritated. Hurt.

"Honestly, there's no point asking for a second chance," Eddie continues, "because I'm not going to give you one."

Wade rolls his shoulders back, flexing his fingers out straight and then curls them into fists. "Right, of course," he says coldly. Trying to bottle down his feelings into icy indifference. "You're still hung up on Richie, aren't you? A straight guy who's never going to like you back. Have fun with that, Eddie. I'm sure it'll work out great for you."

He waits a moment, for Eddie's response, like he wants to see how deep that cut. And though Eddie doesn't speak, the stricken, wretched look on his face seems to satisfy Wade completely. Because he smirks, cruel, and he leaves. And the rain falls. And the sky seems darker, the air feels colder.

Violet has gone still.

And Eddie's heart leaps from his chest and doesn't survive the fall to the ground.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Eddie was younger, and he found out the medication his mother gave him was all a lie, he had yelled. Screamed. The kind of rough, hoarse screams that sound like they're been ripped from your throat. Cried. Looked into his mother's eyes and told her he hated her. Thrown things across the room and watched them break. When he feels anger, he releases it with all the same fury that it burns with inside him.

But in Violet's anger, she has become silent.

Eddie stresses over what he should say to her during the ride home, stews in his anxiety in the backseat. _"I'm sorry, Violet,"_ he should say, but he doesn't think that liking Richie is something he needs to apologise for. _"I'm sorry I didn't tell you."_ That's better. _“I was going to, I wanted to be honest with you.” "I'm sorry Wade ruined fucking everything."_

He glances nervously at the side of her face, as the radio blares, as the streets blur. It's like she's carved of stone, rigid, expressionless, not even a rise and fall of her chest. And he knows she's processing, he knows she has been caught off-guard and needs time gather herself together.

But she doesn't speak, not a word, during the drive home.

And it's worse than being yelled at.

Richie, on the other hand, is completely and happily oblivious. Has enjoyed a nice day out with his sister and the boy he likes. So when they get home, he bounds up onto the front porch and jiggles his keys into the front door, still humming the song that had been playing on the radio.

Violet hangs back, hovering by the bonnet of Richie's car, as Richie strolls into the house, so Eddie hangs back, too.

It feels like a breaking point, as Violet traces her fingers in the dust on Richie's car. It feels like a crack in the ice, one wrong step and the crack will grow into a chasm and you will fall in freezing water. With the right steps, you will walk along the ice safely, and the crack won't grow. But it'll remain carved in the ice.

"So, Violet begins. Her voice sounds like ice water. "You like Richie."

She doesn't look at him, so Eddie stares at the way her dark lashes fan over her cheeks. He has an opportunity here, to lie, and it's so tempting. _Wade doesn't know what he's talking about_ , he could say, and Violet would have every reason to believe him. But he knows he has to do this.

"Yeah," he says. "I do."

Something crosses over Violet's face, almost like a flinch. As though they were the last words she wanted to hear.

She looks up at him. "Why?" she asks, with a small laugh, less amused and more confused, desperate. Eddie is not sure if there is one simple answer to that question. Violet shakes her head, rakes her fingers through her hair. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised," she says, before Eddie can even reply. "I mean, everyone always does."

"This is different -” Eddie begins.

“And you hid it from me,” Violet continues, but it’s more to herself than to him. “Just like everyone else. I thought that _you,_ at least, would…” and then she jolts, as though hidden by a sudden thought. And narrows her eyes at him suspiciously. "Did he suck up to you?" Violet asks. "Make you feel special? Or were you only friends with me to get to him? Because that's happened before."

"What? No. None, none of those things," Eddie stutters. "This...this doesn't change anything between us, you know. I mean, I still like you the same. I just like him too."

Violet still watches him with her eyes narrowed, but Eddie doubts she's really seeing him at all. Has fallen into her own head, and maybe she's watching a reel of all the times that this has happened before.

Then she smiles, in a way that doesn't touch her eyes. And she laughs, in a small, huffy, self-deprecating sort of way. "God, you knew that I struggled with Richie over this and yet you still..." she cuts off. “I can have never have one fucking thing," she says. Her grin feels so...off. "Not one thing to myself. I have to work so hard to get my own friends to like me as much as they like him. And it's pointless. Every fucking time."

"I don’t like him _more,"_ Eddie says adamantly. "I just like him differently."

"Right, right," Violet says, smiling turning sarcastic. She lightly kicks the tyre of Richie's car, cranes her neck up to look at the cloudy sky. The air still smells damp, of rain. "Just like him differently."

Frustration constricts Eddie's chest. "Come _on,_ Violet," he blurts. God, why doesn't she _understand?_

Violet whips around, like he's pulled too tight at her strings and now they've snapped. "No," she says. "Come on, _Eddie._ I've seen this happen with _all_ of my friends. It's the same thing every time. All my friendships are competitions that I can never win. Everyone is always so focused on Richie, and I don't know what to do about it. I just want a friend who likes _me_ , but Richie gets such a kick out of seeing me lose. And he's going to get a kick out of this too. Because, yay, he beat me! Again! He won!"

"That's not true," Eddie says, quietly. "About Richie. He doesn't want to beat you at anything. He just wants people to like him. He doesn't have any friends of his own..."

"Oh, right, you two have talked about this have you?" asks Violet bitterly. "When was that? Have you been hanging out? Is that why you like him so much? Macie liked Richie so much more after he started hanging out with her too."

Eddie falters. Speechless. Because Violet looks at him, her eyes the same colour as the stormy clouds above.

And she doesn't look like Violet.

Because Violet is untouched. Because Violet was broken by her mother's death, and then was the one to slowly put herself back together. Because Violet is reasonable, calm, because she doesn't get angry, not like this. Because she's so _above_ it all.

But here is a girl who didn't see him the way everyone else did, who he would do anything for, who he idolises, who he adores.

And she's just a girl.

"You should go," Violet says.

It's hard seeing her like this. The muscle that twitches in her jaw, the quiver to her chin, the shine in her eyes - unshed tears. It's hard to see her as messy and imperfect as everyone else.

"Violet -”

"I just wish you had at least told me," she says. "So I didn't have to hear it from _Wade."_

"I wanted to," Eddie says. "I was going to."

That sad smile is back. "Yeah, alright, Eddie."

"And I don't like Richie more than you."

"Just go, Eddie."

Eddie grits his teeth. He doesn't want to leave. He wants her to understand. But she has fallen so far into her anger that anything else he could say would be futile. So he grabs his bike from the damp earth, and he rides home.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Eddie has mastered the skill of faking sick to get out of school.

Back when he had no friends, and would eavesdrop on others' conversation, he would hear students tell each other all the lengths they had to go to fake being sick. They would stay up all the night the night before so they looked terrible and tired the next morning, they would dip thermometers into hot beverages so it looked like they had a fever, they would even make fake vomit, in some cases.

Eddie simply pads out into the kitchen with his best sad-eyed look and tells his mother: "Ma, I don't feel well."

And he gets as many days off school as he wants.

Yes, it is a bit of a cowardly move, missing school so he doesn't have to face Violet. But he just wants to lie in bed and wallow in his sadness. And he's scared that the next time he'll speak to Violet will only end with her rejecting him completely. And he's never fought with a friend before so he feels like he's entitled to being a little cowardly.

He spends his time at home thinking about making up with Violet, and making out with Richie. Usually, he thinks of Richie first, because he's a hormonal teenage boy, and Violet second, because he's riddled with guilt. It's a painful couple of days.

He goes back to school on Wednesday, because if he pretends to be sick any longer, his mother will drive him up to the hospital.

(Which he knows from experience).

That day, he wears a denim jacket covered in patches that Violet sewed on for him, runs his fingers through his hair and anxiously makes his way down the stairs. That day, his mother stops him at the front door.

"Eddie, dear," she says. "What do you want for your birthday? Were you planning on spending it with your friend? Because, well, I'd like to spend it with you too..."

And Eddie blinks at her. "My birthday?"

"Yes. On Friday."

Oh.

Here's the thing: birthdays are only fun if you have any friends at all, and if you have a mother who isn't Sonia Kaspbrak. And Eddie's never had any friends, and always had his mother.

So his birthday is never something he looks forward to, or even remembers. It's just something he experiences when it happens.

But it's different this year, isn't it? He has friends now. Only, he is in a complicated situated with both of them.

"I'm not doing anything with my friend," Eddie says.

"No?"

"They - he doesn't even know it's my birthday, so," Eddie shrugs. "We don't have anything planned."

His mother purses her lips, wipes her hands on her hips. "Well," she says, sharply. "He doesn't sound like a very good friend."

She says it because she doesn't, and has never, liked Eddie's 'friend', because Eddie spends so much with him. But, as Eddie shrugs on his backpack, tightens the strap of his bike helmet, he just...thinks.

Violet has not once asked him when his birthday is.

He straddles his bike, front tyre grooving into the dirt when he pushes off.

Violet does not know that he spends all his birthdays eating dry carrot cake, or fruit cake with his mother. That the best gift he has ever gotten was a new pair of sneakers that properly support his heels.

The cold air stings his eyes as he speeds down a hill, swerving into the curb when a car honks at him from behind.

Violet has never asked about his childhood. Or any friends he might have had before her. She has never spoken about her own friends. How she met Macie, and Elizabeth, and Abigail. They have never spoken about who, exactly, Violet's aunt is, and what she means to her. They have never spoken about Eddie's mother, and what she has done to him.

His thighs burn as he climbs up the hill on the other side. And he thinks that that is not how a friendship is supposed to be.

And then he shakes that thought away, because he is only thinking that because of his mother.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Violet isn't at school. She doesn't go to her aunt's until tomorrow.

She is avoiding him, too.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Eddie spends his seventeenth birthday miserable.

He doesn't talk to anyone at school. And that evening, his mother makes him a chocolate cake, rather than her usual 'healthy' ones, but it's still sugar free, and incredibly dry, and disgusting. She also spends the entire evening making snide comments about his 'friend', like she's pleased that Eddie is spending another birthday friendless, because he's spending another birthday alone with her.

Eddie wonders what he'd be doing right now if he was spending the day with Violet. And the bitter, irritable side of himself snaps that they'd be doing whatever Violet wanted, because that's what they always do.

The other side of himself flinches at that, because it is painful to think such harsh thoughts about someone he loves so much.

"See how nice this is?" says his mother later that night. Outside, the sky is dark and the neighbourhood is shadowy. The blackened lounge-room is lit by the blue-ish glow of the small television screen. And the glow catches on his mother's teeth as she smiles at him. "Spending time at home?"

Eddie sinks down onto the couch, and lets the images on the TV blur in his vision. This couch is nowhere near as comfy as the one at the Tozier's house. It feels hard and stiff, and is covered in a plastic that the back of your thighs always stick to on hot days.

He says, in reply, "this has been the worst birthday of my life."

His mother stares at him. But she is just another blur in his vision.

His house is always too cold. And it always smells like chemicals. Like a hospital. The rooms are always too dark. And his mother is always too far inside her own thoughts and wants and beliefs to see him as a person.

He should be with his friends right now. On his birthday. At least, Violet should have called him. Laughed, "Happy birthday!" over the phone and promised to see him later. She should have known what today was. She should have asked, at least once. But she didn't. She never did.

Of course, Richie doesn’t know when Eddie’s birthday is, either. But Richie knows about Eddie’s relationship with his mother, Richie knows that Eddie had never had a single friend until Violet, Richie knows that Eddie’s favourite colour is green, Richie never pulled Eddie into _his_ interests without once asking about Eddie’s.

His mother watches him timidly until the sound of the phone ringing makes her jump to her feet.

Two characters on the TV run toward each other, and hold each other in a tight embrace. Eddie hates them, a little bit.

"Eddie?" his mother calls from the hallway. "It's for you."

Eddie blinks and wonders if, by some miracle, Violet has called him after all. 

He looks at his mother questionably as he takes the phone from her, but she only gazes back at him cluelessly before wandering back into the lounge-room.

He presses the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

"Spaghetti. It's me. I'm still at my aunt's house and she wants to use the phone so I'm gonna have to make this quick. Also, I told your mom I'm your classmate and that we're working on a science project together so make sure to throw in some sciencey words while you're talking to me."

Eddie can't describe how he feels, at the moment, as Richie's voice washes over him. No matter the fact that Richie is rambling, is not saying anything particularly special. It’s just the sound, his tone. It feels a bit like Eddie’s spending a summer's day at the Tozier's house, smelling the fresh, pure scent of the earth as he stands in the trees out the back, eating something sweet, like fruit or ice cream, and watches the sun set. It's a golden feeling.

"It's just that Violet has been, like, super pissed at me the whole time we've been here," Richie continues. "Like, she won't even speak to me. And I was wondering if it's because maybe you told her, that, _you know,_ and she didn't react well. Which, like, really fucking sucks, and..."

"Richie," Eddie interrupts. Richie breaks off, a little breathless from speaking so fast.

"Sorry," he says, "I'll slow down -"

"How soon could you get here?" Eddie continues softly, as though Richie hadn't spoken. "To see me?"

A pause. Even in his silence, Eddie can hear Richie's concern, his surprise. But Eddie has stressed over Violet for days, until his chest felt tight and his stomach felt ill. Has suffered through sadness, anger, resentment. She has been all he's thought about, and, now, he would rather hit his head against the wall than listen to Richie tell him about how _pissed_ she is at him, at them both.

Because it's only an unpleasant reminder. Because he wants to forget, just for a moment. Because the sound of Richie’s voice makes his body burn and ache, makes Eddie _miss_ him.

Because he remembers how he felt on that hill, during their first date, as the two of them lay under the stars.

"I can be there in two hours," Richie replies.

He'd felt safe.


	6. end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cant believe i finally finished this. like, i was starting to get annoyed with how long it was taking and just wanted it to be over but now thats it actually done im kinda sad lol i loved writing in this little universe 
> 
> anyway. im so sorry that this took 100 hundred years but i rlly hope this'll be worth the wait. its a long one so !! strap urselves in lmao
> 
> also i finally made [an IT related tumblr](https://belbys.tumblr.com) so come chat to me if u want!!

Richie's not entirely sure he can make it all the way down to Eddie's house in two hours, but he'll break a couple speed limits if he has to.

He hangs up the phone noisily, so his aunt will know he's finished, and then he rushes down the hall to grab his things. Keys, jacket. Book of puns he got for his thirteenth birthday (because he thought he'd need something to entertain himself with). Gum. His aunt's house is the kind of large, warmly decorated suburban home that has multiple guest bedrooms and more than one bathroom. If you look outside whenever the sun is up, you can see a neat, family friendly street, with other large homes and clean-cut lawns. Kids riding their bikes and playing in their front yards. Their parents trimming their hedges and chatting to their neighbours, or smoking on the front porch. It's kind of picturesque. Richie kind of hates it.

"Richie, Violet! There's some hot chocolates on the table for you!" calls their aunt, as she makes her way up the stairs. Richie listens to her footsteps, waits until they disappear into her bedroom, She has been exceptionally nice to them both ever since they got here - Richie especially. Richie assumes that she knows he doesn't like her. Also, he's sure all the little nice gestures are just a ploy to get them to move in with her eventually.

Of course, that'll never happen. Richie's decided that, as soon as it's possible, he's going to live on his own, or (maybe eventually, if he could ever be that lucky) with Eddie.

Now, Richie slips from his room and creeps back down the hall. Listens to the sound of his aunt talking on the phone in her room, and, as he nears the staircase, the sound of...sniffling.

He pauses outside the first guest room. The door is ajar, but the light isn't on. Leaning forward, Richie can make out the shadowy shape of Violet sitting on the end of the bed. Her pointy elbows digging into her thighs, her face in her long hands, her hair an inky waterfall cascading over her shoulders. And the sounds are soft: quick, sharp breaths and quiet, damp sniffs, but Richie knows, in an instant, that she is crying.  

His entire body turns cold.

There's something very harrowing about hearing your younger sister cry. Especially when your younger sister is Violet, who hardly cries at all.

When they were little, Richie and his untamed imagination were convinced that Violet was a robot, or an alien from another planet, because of how little she cried. He remembers once, when they were kids, Violet falling from one of the trees out the back, in one of their attempts to find something to sate their boredom during the summer. One second, she was grinning at him, face peeking between the leaves of the treetop, sunlight a halo above her head. The next second, she had slipped, and was tumbling to the ground, hitting other branches on her way down.

He remembers he had yelled her name, a frantic _"Violet!"_ as he jumped from his own tree, and sprinted to where her body was crumpled on the grass. He remembers the way she had swayed when she'd gotten to her feet, and how he thought she must be okay, because she didn't scream, or yelp, or cry, like someone who was injured might have done.

But when he asked, "Are you hurt?" breathless, panting, heart beating a mile a minute. She had, with her expression almost entirely blank and oddly mild, stretched out her arm toward him, and shown him the blood that gushed from the cruel wound in her bicep.

She didn't cry then, nor when she got seven stitches in that arm. She didn't cry whenever she stubbed her toe, or whenever she watched sad movies, nor did she cry when their cat ran away. (She had just looked rather disheartened, and had frowned at Richie - who was crying - and said, in some sort of weird attempt at comfort, "We can always get another one").

Richie just figured that, when they were born, all the feeling went to him, and all the logic went to Violet.

But she cried the night their dad left. And she cried when their mother died.

Maybe it's more accurate to think that Violet Tozier only ever cries when something truly breaks her.

And she's crying now.

For a moment, Richie is frozen. For a moment, he considers going in there.

But he promised Eddie two hours.

So he turns away from the shaking form of his sister, descends the stairs with his chest feeling tight. And he drops a note reading, _I've gone home, won't be back,_ on the kitchen table - next to the two untouched mugs of hot chocolate. And he leaves.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Eddie's mother falls asleep one hour before Richie arrives.

Eddie thanks every force of the universe for making her fall asleep on the couch, instead of in her room upstairs. Still he turns up the TV a bit, so if she wakes at any loud noises Richie and Eddie might make, she'll just think it's the television. _Not_ that he and Richie are going to be _making_ any loud noises...or will be doing anything that _involves_ loud noises...

Eddie suddenly feels a bit warm.

He shuts the lounge-room door, then makes his way upstairs. Where he waits, impatiently, for Richie to arrive.

He waits fifty five minutes.

And then Richie Tozier is stumbling through his window.

"Hey," Richie says, breathless, as he staggers onto Eddie's bedroom floor. He looks even more dishevelled than usual, like he sprinted here, hair windswept and cheeks ruddy. Layering a denim jacket over his usual Hawaiian shirt and t-shirt look (Eddie sometimes misses the leather jacket), he gives Eddie a smile as he steadies on his feet, and holds out a bunch of flowers.

"I figured you and Violet fell out," Richie explains in a rush. "And I thought these might cheer you up. I didn't have time to buy some really nice ones, though, so I just picked them from your neighbour's lawn."

Eddie can tell. Because, one, he recognises the purple and white flowers he walks past every day, and two, clumps of dirt fall from the stems and sprinkle onto Richie's tattered converses.

"Hope that's okay," Richie adds, and Eddie realises that Richie's speaking because _he_ , himself, is not.

Because he's been staring. At how Richie looks in his room, under the soft light with the dark window at his back, beside the neatly made bed, on the clean white carpet; he looks bright, bright eyes, bright smile. He looks wild, wild hair, wild breathing, wild flowers in his hands, covered in dirt.

It fills Eddie with an inflated sense of warmth, that this bright, wild boy rushed all the way here for him, stopped to pick flowers for him, dropped everything with no question for _him._

"You're so lame, Richie Tozier," Eddie says, taking the flowers with a smile so wide it almost hurts his face.

Richie shoves his hands in pockets, looking sheepish. Like now the flowers are in Eddie's hands, he can see how flimsy they look. "You can just throw them out," he gestures toward the window, "if you want."

Eddie hugs them close to his chest. "No way." He's going to keep them in a vase by his bed until their colour is gone and their petals turn brittle. Just like the last bunch of flowers Richie gave him.

Richie ducks his head with an amused grin.

And suddenly it's the best birthday ever.

(Though, while Eddie is basking in the glow of Richie's presence, while he's letting all his torment over Violet melt from his shoulders, while he's wrestling with the urge to lunge forwards and bury his face in Richie's chest, he doesn't notice the rigidity in the way Richie stands. The tension in Richie's jaw. But Richie wants to keep it that way).

"It's not just the flowers though," Richie says. "I thought I could take you somewhere." He looks around Eddie's room, and it's so very obvious that he doesn't belong in it. Too neat, too structured, too _empty._ Compared to the chaos that is Richie's own room, full of clothes and cassette tapes and things that belong to Richie, things that scream Richie, things that _are_ Richie. Eddie's room is bare, clothes neatly hung in his cupboard, books neatly stacked on the shelves, cassette tapes full of Richie's favourite songs tucked away in his drawers.

Eddie doesn't belong in it, either.

"I feel like getting you out of here is the best thing to do right now," Richie says.

Eddie quirks a brow. "Are you kidnapping me?" he asks, teasing.

Richie grins. "I'm stealing you away. I'm a prince who has climbed to the very top of your tower, and I'm gonna free you from it, my dear princess."

Eddie laughs, and Richie sets himself down on the windowsill, one foot on the floor and the other dangling out the other side. He balances himself by holding the window pane above his head and his smile falls into a sigh. "I gotta admit, though, Eddie. There's something really depressing about your place. And, well, you must be pretty upset right now..." he pauses, and the way he looks at Eddie makes Eddie think that he's waiting for something. For Eddie to crumble, to break, over Violet. Over their fight. Or maybe he's just waiting for an explanation, because he's doesn't know the details of it. Has just put together the pieces to deduce that it happened.

But Eddie doesn't want to talk about it. Doesn't want to think about it. And Richie seems to understand that.

"Let's go clear our heads," Richie says. "I know where we can go."

_Take me anywhere._

And Richie climbs back out the window, Eddie promising not to be too far behind. Just needs put some water in a vase, for his flowers. But he also writes a note, from paper he hastily tears from one of his school books, which he leaves on his bed. It reads, _I left early to go see my friend, be back later,_ for his mother to find in the morning. Because he knows, already, that he doesn't want to come back tonight.

 

 

 

The last two times Richie and Eddie had been alone together in Richie's car, they had made out in it.

Now, Eddie sits still in the passenger seat, and tries very hard to think about anything other than that.

And fails, of course.

He sneaks a glance over at Richie. Whose shadowed face is lit in flashes, by the street lamps that they pass by. He drives with one hand on the steering wheel, and the other leaning against the door. He has one of the bracelets around his wrist between his teeth. And it seems that he is preoccupied by something else. Something that makes his shoulders tense, and his eyes dark.

But then Richie glances over at Eddie, meets Eddie's shy gaze. And he turns his head, only slightly, to look at the backseat. When he looks back at Eddie, his smile is a secret thing, the kind of dopey, private smile one holds when they think of kissing the boy they like.

Eddie blushes. Richie averts his attention back to the road, grips the steering wheel tight with both hands, and lets his smile fall. If Eddie wasn't watching him closely, he wouldn't have seen it; the way Richie's smile tugs down at the corners. Richie's obviously stressed over something, and trying to hide it. Doesn't want Eddie to worry.

"Richie," Eddie says softly, because _too late_ , he's worried.

Richie glances at him again, eyes round, flashing gold in the bursts of warm light. He chews his bottom lip. Always has to be doing something, chewing his lip or the bands around his wrists, tapping his fingers, jiggling his leg, running his hands through his hair. Eddie wants to smooth out Richie's nervous energy with his fingertips, wants to cup Richie's restless hands in his own, stop Richie's fidgety legs with the weight of his body, press his mouth to Richie's bitten lips.

"You're gonna like this place, Eddie," is Richie's reply.

Of course Eddie will. Because Eddie will be there with Richie, and, he's decided, that by Richie's side is the best place he could be. Even with this odd energy between them, the anxiety they both breathe, with the loud reminder of their bodies pressed together in the backseat (a reminder that they could really do without, right now) the world always sits right when they're together.

Eddie reaches across the gap between their seats, and, fingers grazing along Richie's temple, tucks a curl behind Richie's ear. Richie's eyes flutter at his touch, and his grip tightens around the steering wheel.

"Thank you," Eddie whispers. "For coming all this way. For me."

It doesn't feel like enough. Doesn't convey everything that Eddie feels inside him. Doesn't ease the tension in Richie's shoulders.

But that doesn't matter. Because they will go to this place, and they will be together, and they will forget about everything for a while. Let it all wash away, and just be Richie and Eddie.

Richie's smile is soft. "Anything for you."

 

 

 

It seems at first that Richie is taking them up to the Tozier's house. In fact, Eddie is almost sure of it when they turn on the long, straight road of the Lane. (The road is always so eerie at night, with the tall dark shadows of the trees looming them, feels claustrophobic and closed in). But Richie doesn't drive all the way down the end, where his little wooden house sits, instead he turns off somewhere near the middle. Down a little winding road that leads them deep into the trees. It feels like the kind of place in which you'd get murdered.

Eddie is just about to say so, with a teasing grin on his face, when suddenly the solid wall of trees drops away, and opens up to reveal a large, glistening pond - as black as the night sky above it, rippling with stars - and, behind that, an expanse of flat, grassy fields. Dotted with what Eddie supposes are cows, grazing, sleeping, but in the night, they just look like little dark shapes that sometimes shift and move.

Richie pulls up sideways along the pond, and they get out silently. Eddie, too transfixed to say anything, Richie, nervously awaiting his reaction.

The air is cool and crisp as Eddie shuts his door behind him. A breeze ruffling his hair, smelling damp, like the pond, earthy, like the dewy dirt beneath their feet. He rounds the car to where Richie is leant against his door, watching the way the water glistens and flutters. Eddie stops beside him, rests back against the car, close enough that their arms touch. And he tips his head back, and looks up at the sky. And the stars glitter over their inky canvas, bright and plentiful. And the fields stretch on and on. And it feels open and free, like you can breathe. Like you can let your troubles drift off in the breeze, and get lost somewhere out the meadows. Like you can forget.

Eddie lets his head loll over to the side, so he can meet Richie's gaze. "You always know the best places."

And it seems that this place has had the same effect on Richie, because his grin comes easy, tension melting off him. "I know," he says. He nudges Eddie's shoulder playfully. "But don't tell anyone else. This is just for me and you."

Eddie pinches his thumb and forefinger together and drags them along his lips, zipping his mouth shut, twisting a lock, and then throwing away the key.

There's a gleam in Richie's eyes. A tender sort of fondness in the curve of his mouth. He copies the action.

(It's just an excuse for them to look at each other's lips).

"I wanna show you something," Richie says.

He leads Eddie around the pond, their sneakers sinking into the muddy bank, and then jumps over the wooden fence that separates them from the fields. Eddie follows, landing on the grass; it ripples in the wind, a lush green ocean before them. And they follow it into its depths.

"I used to come out here all the time as a kid," Richie says, as they walk. He ducks and plucks a twig from the ground, breaks it into little pieces. "I was always full of energy. I could just run around here until I got tired."

Eddie can picture it. Small, restless, Richie Tozier, knees stained green, and glasses askew, racing around in the endless grass with the sun or the moon or the clouds watching from above.

"Vi would sometimes come, too," Richie adds, and he holds the sort of fond smile on his face that normally wouldn't be brought on by Violet. "She would do cartwheels, near the fence. She wouldn't go any further, coz she was afraid of the cows."

It is then that Eddie realises that the little dark figures out in the fields are no longer little dark figures. But, as they walk, are slowly coming into focus, until he can make out the colours and features of the cows. He throws Richie a wide-eyed look, because, yeah, he can understand being afraid of them, but Richie leads him right past them (grinning at Eddie's frightened expression). And they walk far out left, the ground beginning to dip, until a little old, wooden farmhouse comes into view.

It doesn't look like it's been used in years, windows smashed in and some of the wooden panels hanging on their very last nail. Richie beams at it as though it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"It's still here!" he says giddily. They reach the front door, which is cracked in a few places, and looks like it was once, in a past life, painted red. "I would hide out here when I was a kid sometimes," he explains, shouldering the door open. It resists. "I thought they might've torn it down."

It takes the two of them to get the door open, bumping their shoulders against it on the count of three, and then they stumble inside, greeted with clouds of dust and the musty smell of old hay.

"There's probably, like, a shit ton of spiders in here," Eddie says, coughing up the dirt that tickles his throat. Richie's smile never wavers.

"Yeah, it's just best not to think about it."

The inside, much like the outside, is not much to look at. It's been emptied out, aside from some old barrels of hay, buckets, and a couple gardening tools, and is dark and stuffy, spider webs strewn across the rafters. The most interesting thing being the loft and the large hole in the ceiling above it, which lets you see out into the stars.

"I know there's a light here somewhere," Richie says, stepping into the middle of the room, neck craned up to study the ceiling. The floor groans beneath his feet. He points up suddenly with a cry of "Here!", and Eddie spots the little light bulb hanging from the centre of the ceiling. There's a little string next to it, that you have to tug to turn it on. But, even when he stretches up on his tiptoes, its too high for Richie for reach.

"How did you turn that on when you were a kid?" Eddie snorts.

"I didn't, I only came here during the day. I just remember it being here," Richie replies. He looks at Eddie, and then at the light bulb. "C'mere. I'll hoist you up."

So Eddie crosses over to him, and Richie turns around, so Eddie can climb onto his back. And Richie lifts Eddie easily, large hands gripping his thighs, and maybe Eddie thinks that's a _little_ hot. One hand on Richie's firm shoulder as he reaches up and snags the string between his fingers.

It's broken, doesn't turn on, and Eddie says so, and Richie carefully lets him slide back onto the floor. Eddie lets his hand trail down Richie's back as he does, like maybe he'll be able to feel the muscles in Richie's back through his jacket.

It seems that Eddie's body is _finally_ realising the situation. He and Richie are alone, in the dark, under the stars. And Richie's dark jeans hug his legs so nicely, his shoulders looking strong and broad in his denim jacket, his dark curls falling over his forehead. Eddie's whole body is ravenous.

So, when Richie turns to look at Eddie, face half covered in shadows, Eddie blurts, "do you work out?"

Richie lifts his brow. "What?"

"Do you work out. Like, go to the gym," Eddie says, in a rush. Face heating up. The shadows and silver glow highlight the sharp angles of Richie's face, his cheek bones, his fine jaw. "You picked me up so easily."

The eyebrow stays lifted, but now an amused smile joins it. "I don't work out," Richie replies.

"Bullshit," Eddie says, and both he and Richie are surprised by the firmness of the word. Eddie's whole body feels hot. "Your arms are...you know...muscular."

"No they're not." Richie grins.

"They _are,"_ Eddie argues. He tugs impatiently on Richie's sleeve. "Flex. You'll see."

Richie looks incredibly entertained and, with his warm eyes locked on Eddie's, and his lips dancing at the edges, he lifts his right arm, and flexes his bicep. The fabric of his jacket strains a little around his arm, the rise of muscle visible there under the sleeve. Which, should be proof enough, but Eddie feels compelled to reach out and feel the muscle for himself. With Richie's gaze hot on the side of his face, he places his hand on Richie's bicep, fingers pressing into the firm muscle. And it's not a bodybuilder's arm, but it's nicely toned.

Eddie wants to know what it looks like without any fabric in the way.

"See?" Eddie's voice has gone a little weak. He blushes furiously, clears his throat. "Muscular."

Richie doesn't say anything. Eddie glances up, and can see that the amused smile has dropped from Richie's face. He studies Eddie intently, eyes flickering over Eddie's face as though he's slipped half-way into his thoughts. And there's conflict in his expression, eyes going dark, serious. He looks as he did in the car: troubled by something. But as soon as Eddie's expression softens into one of concern, mouth opening to ask what's wrong, Richie snaps out of it. Drops his arm and gives Eddie a smile.

"Let's go up onto the loft," he says.

Right. Eddie shouldn’t be flirting.

There's an old rickety ladder leading up to it, creaks beneath their weight. The loft is a second storey that only covers about a quarter of the room, made of wooden boards. With the moon shining directly down on them, through the large hole in the roof, it is much lighter up here, and the dust that kicks up from their sneakers dances in the faint light.

Richie tips his face up to look out at the night sky.

"I came up here a lot as a kid," he says.

"To watch the sky?" Eddie asks softly.

"Nah, to throw stuff through the hole in the roof. From in here and outside. I treated it a bit like a basketball hoop." Richie throws Eddie a grin, and then scans the floor. Ducking to scoop up something with a little gleeful 'ah!'. "Toy cars," he says, holding out a little rusted matchbox car on his palm for Eddie to see. "Popular choice for throwing. I would also throw Vi's Barbie dolls. Only when I was pissed at her, though. She only liked them for their clothes anyway."

Eddie takes the car from Richie's hand with a smile, runs it up Richie's arm. "I like hearing about your childhood." 

Richie watches, eyes gentle, as Eddie pushes the little car up along his shoulder, down his chest, using Richie's body as a race track. "I like telling you. I've never really had anyone to tell." He presses his lips together to keep from laughing, eyes squeezing shut, as Eddie runs the car up along his face. "I wanna hear about yours, too."

"It's not that interesting," Eddie replies.

Richie peeks one eye open. "Everything you do is interesting."

Eddie snorts, disbelieving. Then he grips the car tight in his fist, turns, and throws it through the hole in the roof. Watches it hurtle toward the sky, and then fall.

"Nice throw," Richie says with an approving nod. "And also very interesting."

Eddie laughs.

(The next twenty minutes is spent scouring the floor for more things to throw. Take turns lobbing cars and rocks and little bouncy balls out through the roof. Richie finds one of Violet's Barbie's, and admit that he used to play with them sometimes, give them names and personalities, so he sometimes felt bad when he threw them). 

Later, they settle on the floor, rearranging some hay to cushion them as they sprawl on the floor and look up at the night sky. The bitter wind nips at Eddie's face, the tip of his nose cold and red. It makes his eyes water a bit, that bite in the air, as he looks up. But it's beautiful, how deeply dark the night is, how startling bright the stars are, when they are not washed out by pollution of man-made light. The sky looks vivid, intense, and it feels close, like he can reach up a hand and rearrange the stars.

Beside him, Richie lies back casually, his legs straight and crossed at the ankles, his hands resting on his stomach. There's a space between the two of them, and Eddie hates that it's there.

"Know any constellations?" Richie asks, without taking his eyes off the sky.

"The Little Dipper," Eddie replies.

"Yeah? What's it look like?"

"Like the Big Dipper, but smaller."

Richie laughs, the kind of laugh that starts off as a pleasantly surprised 'ha!' and then bubbles up into clear and lively laughter. Eddie focuses very hard on a small little bundle of stars beaming down above his head, because he feels that if he looks at Richie now, he might kiss him.

His whole body aches, yearning.

"I think I remember there being a constellation that's shaped like a 'W'," Richie says.

Eddie chews his lip.

But... why _can't_ he kiss him?

They decided they were going to wait, put their dating on hold, so they could try to find a way to date without hurting Violet. And now they have tried, and haven't succeeded in not hurting Violet, so...what are they still waiting for?

Yes, this will not fix the whole Violet problem, and will, in fact, just hurt her even more, but what's Eddie care? She's hurt him too. He doesn't want to let her keep him from the one thing that truly makes him happy. He _shouldn't._

Not anymore.

Eddie sits up, crosses his legs with his body angled toward Richie, and inhales very deeply - all while Richie watches, one eyebrow cocked, questioning.

"Violet found out that I like you," Eddie begins. "Not from me, but from Wade. That day we went shopping for you aunt, he was there, and mentioned it. And Violet was really upset. Angry. We had a fight when we got home. And I tried to tell her that I like you both, just in different ways. But she didn't care." Eddie inhales again, digs his fingers into his thighs. And, despite their peaceful surroundings, despite Richie's steady presence, emotion rises up in him, bitter and irate "She _doesn't_ care," he says, sourly. "I'm not a friend to her. I'm just...a thing. A _possession_."

"Whoa," Richie interrupts, pushing himself up on one hand, stunned. "Whoa, wait. What are you talking about? You and Violet are still friends. I know you've had a fight but you're still..."

"She doesn't give a shit about me," Eddie snaps. Anger is always so quick to come, and eager to stay. "She just wanted someone who only cared about _her._ So she could feel like she won some competition or some shit. I don't know. I just know that now she knows my whole life doesn't revolve around her, she wants nothing to do with me."

Richie looks completely taken back, mouth agape, eyebrows raised, the fair silver glow of the moon turning his skin a terrible pale. The opposite of a shadow.

"Eddie," Richie says, fighting to make his tone sound normal, and not completely bewildered. "I...I know you're angry, but don't blame her. This whole thing is my fault. She must feel like I take everything away from her, because...I kinda did. And now she thinks you're another friend she's lost to me. It makes sense for her to be upset. And she is. Really upset. She was _crying,_ Eddie. I saw her. And Violet…she _never_ cries."

That strikes something within Eddie, though maybe it’s only because of how sad Richie sounds when he says it. But still, Eddie furrows his brow, and he knows he said before that the world sits right when he's with Richie, but at this moment, it feels as though the Earth has tilted off its axis. Richie was always so critical of his and Violet's friendship, and Eddie never liked it, hated it, but he needs it right now. He needs Richie to nod and tell him he's right.

Richie is sitting up now, knees bent, but, even without the way Richie looks down at him, Eddie feels small. He ducks his head, traces patterns into the dust covering the wooden panels, stains his fingertips black. He can _feel_ Richie's gaze. Just as much as he can feel the lump in his throat.

"She never asked about the things I liked," he says, and his voice is a barely-there sound. "She doesn't know about my mother, or my childhood, or the fact that I never had any friends. She hardly knows anything about me at all. We just did the things she wanted to do. It's..." Eddie's eyes sting, stares up at Richie helplessly. "That's now how a friendship is supposed to be."

And it feels stupid, to get so choked up. The tears that burn and streak down his cheeks, hot and salty when they catch on the corner of his mouth. But it hurts. The cold realisation that a beautiful thing is not a beautiful thing. But something ordinary, or even harmful, that you convinced yourself was a beautiful thing.

Richie seems frozen, now that Eddie is crying - silent tears, because Eddie has squeezed his quivering mouth shut. He watches Eddie and his expression is pained. One hand lifted as though meant to comfort him, somehow. As though its goal was to land on Eddie's shoulder or hair or cup his cheek but it lost its nerve and now hovers awkwardly in the air.

"Eddie," Richie says, and his voice is tight, a reflection of the sorrow in his eyes. "She cares about you." Eddie's lips tremble and then burst open, and he sucks in a shaky breath, and only cries harder. Richie drops his hand despairingly, and it lands on Eddie's knee. "Hey, please don't cry. I hate seeing you cry. Everything's fucked up, I know. And your friendship with Violet definitely had it's problems. But...she just didn't want to lose you. She cares about you, Eddie. I know she does. She…she wouldn’t cry over you if she didn’t."

Eddie buries his face in his hands. If she cared about him, she wouldn't be angry if he were to wrap his arms around Richie right now, and cry into his shirt. If she cared about him, she would be happy that he has found someone who cares about him, who likes him, who wants him.

"We just need to give her some time," Richie says softly. "She'll come around. Violet's shit with feelings, but she's smart. I just think...everything will be alright, you know?"

When Eddie looks up, Richie is smiling at him, gentle and sad, reassuring. He rubs small circles into Eddie's knee with his thumb.

"I think it'll be alright."

And maybe it will. Maybe. Maybe they can fix this, and piece back together a beautiful thing. But as Eddie looks at Richie, at the way his curls fall over his forehead, at the way his lips curve softly, at the sky rises up above his shoulders, endless and freeing, and he wants to let it all go. He called Richie all the way down here, didn't he? Because he wanted to be with him, because he wanted the comfort he knew Richie's presence would bring. He doesn't want waste this time crying over Violet. He's decided, for the moment, he's over it and he's over her. He wants to spend this time _with_ Richie.

He wipes the tears from his eyes, and the snot from his nose, and says, "It's my birthday today."

Richie blinks, startled, his hand slipping from Eddie's knee. "Wait, what? Really? What...like...you're seventeen now? Wait, holy shit. I didn't get you anything. Oh my god. Eddie! Did you tell me and I just forgot? I don't think you ever told me. Fuck! I feel so _bad._ I need to get you something. I'm _gonna_ get you something. What do you want?"

Now Eddie smiles. And he knows it's a lot to ask, and that he's already asked so much, but he doesn't even try to stop himself from saying, "Can I stay with you tonight?"

And Richie is once again caught off-guard. He blinks and then swallows and then nods. And it seems that he is nervous, but when he meets Eddie's eye, his gaze burns.

"Yeah," he says. "‘Course."

And they climb down from the loft, cross back over the fields. And they settle back into the battered upholstery of Richie's car. And they drive home.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Richie and Eddie have been alone in the Tozier house many times. Those weekends they'd spend watching movies on the couch, listening to music in Richie's room, making ice cream sundaes topped with every topping they could find. But it feels different tonight.

Violet's absence feels like a presence.

"It’s _way_ too quiet in here," Richie says, as they toe off their shoes by the front door. Mutters, "Feels weird."

That’s one way to describe it. Another would be suffocating. Crushing. The house is completely dark, everything blanketed with shadows. Eddie can make out the shape of the couch to his right, and the kitchen counter a little way in front of him, only because he knows they’re there. A little red light blinks through the blackness, probably the microwave, or the radio clock, somewhere in the kitchen. The house smells a bit like lavender, because of the candles they sometimes light, and the fading sweet scent of their carpet cleaner.

Eddie hates it.

Everything feels like a reminder of Violet, their fight, her anger, the tears she refused to spill, the way Eddie's image of her crumbled to reveal a girl he doesn't know. A stranger. It brings back anger of his own; guilt, resentment.

It seems that Richie is not too fond of the weird atmosphere either. Looks thoughtfully at Eddie with his lips pressed together and pushed up towards his cheek. Sees the agitation in Eddie's eyes. Then goes into his room, flicking on the light on his way over. A bulb above Eddie’s head flickers to life, and that’s it. The light hardly reaches the corners of the lounge, the edge of the kitchen counters. Just a haphazardly drawn circle of light surrounding him, the rest of the house still bathed in dim grey light.

In his room, Richie puts on some music, boppy, upbeat, loud enough to be heard clearly out in the kitchen.

When he reappears from the hall, he's humming and clicking his fingers along to the beat. And the light-heartedness of the song, of the smile Richie gives him, cuts through the darkness, both around him, and churning in Eddie’s stomach.

"You're not gonna start dancing, are you?" Eddie jokes.

"Why? You wanna see some moves?" Richie grins. He slides along the floorboards with his socks, sweeping his arms up above his head.

"Oh my god." Eddie watches Richie spin, slipping a little and catching himself with a bow, and he feels embarrassed _for_ him. "Please stop."

"I _could_ stop," Richie says. He holds out a hand, wiggling his eyebrows. "Or you could join me."

"Or I could kick your ass," Eddie replies.

Richie laughs, but he keeps his hand held out, waiting.

And it's just an attempt to take their mind off the weird feeling of Violet's absence, an attempt to cheer Eddie up, an attempt to cheer himself up.

But Eddie fell out with his best friend and flirtily felt up his other best friend's/almost-boyfriend's muscles and snuck out of the house late at night with no intention of coming back so fuck it.

He takes Richie's hand.

Their dancing is no more than the two of them doing the Twist with their hands clasped between them, socks slipping and sliding on the wooden floor. And Eddie really _really_ can't dance. But it's _fun._

Richie sings along loudly, Eddie accidentally steps on Richie's toes, Richie lifts his arm up and twirls Eddie under it, Eddie lifts his arm up and Richie _tries_ to twirl under it (and fails). 

And Richie’s hand are warm and rough in Eddie’s own, and Eddie’s heart hammers from the exertion, from the sight of Richie laughing and singing and twisting Eddie's body in time with his.

"I'm gonna dip you," Richie says, and he pulls Eddie towards him before he can protest. Wraps an arm around Eddie's back, holds their clasped hands up to Eddie's chest, and arches him back. And Eddie just laughs, just goes with it, dips his head back and sticks up a leg for dramatic effect.

"Eddie Kaspbrak!" Richie crows. "You devil!"

Eddie preens, cheeks tinting pink. And he straightens up, keeping his hand clasped tight in Richie's, held close to his chest. He stands very close, with his shoulder brushing Richie's chest, and looks up at him.

Here's the moment - as Richie looks down, warm breath fanning over Eddie's cheek - where Eddie should kiss him.

But, just as he is thinking of it, Richie spins Eddie away from him, lets go of Eddie's hand, and takes a bow.

The song ends and there's three feet of space between them.

"I'll be here all night, folks," Richie tells an imaginary crowd, giving them a wink. When he looks over at Eddie, chest rising and falling, hand pushing his curls from his face, there's an awkward edge to his smile. Like he knows exactly what Eddie had been planning to do. "I'm beat. Let's get a drink, eh? Oh, I think we have some hot chocolate somewhere...."

Well, fuck that. Eddie pouts at Richie's back, as he heads over to the kitchen. Thinks of Richie's conflicted expression, the way he'd dropped his arm, when Eddie had felt up his bicep, thinks of the gap Richie had left between them as they lay together watching the stars, and now this.

Richie's avoiding getting too close to him, like he's still waiting. But they don't _have_ to wait anymore.

Maybe Richie's needs a verbal confirmation. Needs Eddie to tell him, _"hey, we tried to wait so we wouldn't hurt Violet but that failed so we might as well date now."_

Or maybe Richie still _wants_ to wait. _We just need to give her some more time,_ Richie had said, in that little farm house. And maybe by that he also meant that they should wait a little longer.

He _had_ seemed troubled over how upset Violet apparently was.

Ugh. Fuck.

He follows Richie into the kitchen. The music drifting out from Richie's room changes to something much softer as he makes hot chocolate for the two of them. Eddie leans against the counter, watches, and, despite the fact that his head hurts with disarray, lets himself fall into this soft moment. With the little kitchen window behind them, the night scene: shadowy trees saying in the wind, clouds drifting across the moon, visible through the threadbare curtains, the house still and calm in front of them.

Until Richie asks him to grab the sugar from the cupboard above his head, which Eddie can’t reach.

“Oh, right. I forgot you only had cute little legs,” Richie says. Bumps Eddie’s hip. “Move out the way shorty.”

Eddie ends up climbing on the counter to grab the sugar. Just out of spite. And much to Richie’s amusement.

(And he feels a hand brush his hip as he climbs down. Like Richie is making sure he doesn’t fall. Which is completely unnecessary, but makes Eddie’s heart swell).

Later, Richie finds some whipped cream in the fridge and tries to squirt it directly into his mouth, ignoring Eddie’s huffs of, _save it for the hot chocolate!_ And when it ends up all over the counter top, Eddie dips his finger into the cream and, quick as lightning and wanting revenge for calling him _shorty_ , boops it onto Richie's nose.

Except a hand catches his wrist before he can touch Richie's face.

They look at each other, wide-eyed for a moment, surprised at Richie's reflexes. The base of Eddie's spin digs into the counter behind him, and Richie's hand is tight around his wrist, palm a little damp with sweat. Richie stands close enough in front of him that their toes touch and he looks down at Eddie's hand, finger covered in whipped cream, and then drags his eyes up to Eddie's face. A triumphant smirk hooks one side of his mouth, pleased with himself, and entertained by Eddie's antics.

"Cheeky," he teases, and Eddie's whole body goes hot.

“You deserve it,” Eddie says, wriggling his arm in Richie’s grip. It just makes Richie grip his wrist tighter, and Eddie’s _not_ upset about that. “For getting whipped cream everywhere.”

In fact, there’s a little speck of cream at the corner of Richie’s lip, and Eddie’s gaze is immediately drawn to it. _Oh,_ Eddie’s body thinks, _imagine how sweet he’d taste if you kissed him now._

Richie, who is watching him so intently that Eddie’s skin prickles, notices where Eddie’s attention has been drawn to. And he licks the cream from his mouth, in a way that is completely innocent, but Eddie’s thoughts have gone straight to hell.

A muscle twitches in Richie’s jaw – Eddie wants to smooth it over with the backs of his knuckles, with his mouth. And he looks at Eddie like he’s trying to solve an equation. He looks at Eddie like he’s trying to drink in every inch of him.

 _Do you still want to wait,_ Eddie thinks desperately. And he wants to say it aloud, but, looking deep into Richie’s dark eyes, all words have escaped him.

_I don’t want to wait. I’m done waiting. I just want you._

At that thought, Richie’s fingertips dig into the pulse point of Eddie’s wrist, like he heard him, and is trying to pull him closer. And that’s enough for Eddie. He parts his lips, a thrill shoots up his spine when Richie's gaze immediately drops his mouth.

And he tilts forward, leaning up on his toes.

And the microwave goes off.

They both flinch as loud, obnoxious beeping fills the kitchen. Richie drops Eddie’s arm and steps back, looking as though he’s been snapped out of a trance.

“Hot chocolate’s ready,” Richie announces with a weak smile.

“Richie –,” Eddie begins. Richie flinches again, at the sound of his name, and Eddie swallows the rest of his words.

“Want whipped cream on yours? There’s still some left,” Richie says. And obviously he doesn’t want to talk about it. Obviously he still wants to wait. And immediately forgetting about what just happened will definitely make that easier.

Okay. Fine. It sucks, for sure. But. If Eddie has to wait for anyone, he’ll wait for Richie.

He sticks his finger in his mouth and sucks the whipped cream from it. And he notices Richie staring at him from the corner of his eye, and his stomach flips, but it’s easier to pretend he doesn’t see him.

 

 

 

Eddie brushes his teeth, washes his face, and then stays in the bathroom staring at himself in the mirror for a very long time. He’s _not_ thinking about almost kissing Richie in the kitchen. He’s thinking about actually kissing him. Which is, objectively, _way_ worse.

He scowls, turns off the tap, and marches into Richie’s bedroom. The lights are off, and Richie’s sitting up on his bed with his back against the headboards. He’s turned the music down, so it hums beside him, and sorts through his cassette tapes. Looks up when Eddie enters.

“Found you some pyjamas,” Richie says, and he throws Eddie a bundle of clothes. “They’re all clean. I mean, I haven’t worn them in years, so…” he trails off with a shrug. Eddie just nods, holding the bundle up to his chest. For one moment. Two.

"Oh, right." Even in the dim light, Eddie can see the way Richie's cheeks tint red. Darts a quick look at Eddie. "I'll just...turn around." He angles his body so he's facing the wall, and for a moment, Eddie stares at the back of his curly head. Stomach flipping over at the thought of Richie watching him change.

He turns around quickly, changes into a soft pair of grey shorts that Richie must’ve owned when he was thirteen years old, and an old band shirt that is a few sizes too big. And, at one point, while his shirt is off, he can feel a burn between his shoulder blades. The weighted feeling of a gaze skimming over his bare skin. But when he's done, turns back around, Richie is still facing the wall, and doesn't look as though he moved at all.

“You can look now,” Eddie says, diving onto the bed. The mattress jostles beneath the sudden weight. Richie has barely turned back around when Eddie pulls back the covers and snuggles down into them.

“You sleeping here tonight, then?” Richie asks, and there’s a fondness to his voice that makes Eddie’s heart ache. “I thought we’d battle it out over the floor again. And I’d win and cement my title as the nicest, kindest, most giving person in Derry.”

“Yeah, well, you can keep that title. The floor is uncomfortable as shit,” Eddie says. He curls right up, head on the pillow, blanket pulled up to his chin, and cranes his neck to look at Richie. “You don’t have to sleep on it, either, though.”

Richie looks uncertain, and Eddie knows it’s probably not a good idea for the two of them to sleep in the same bed together, but whatever. It was worth a shot.

He rolls over, facing the door. Somewhere, up on the wall in front of him, hidden in the dark, is the little Wonder Violet poster. Eddie searches for the shape of it automatically before letting his gaze drop.

Beneath him, the mattress shifts, and behind him, the mattress dips, as Richie lies down. He’s still on top of the blankets, Eddie can tell, because Richie’s movement makes the quilt tug around his own hip. And there’s a considerable gap between them. But Eddie convinces himself that he can still feel the heat rolling off Richie’s body.

“Sorry if I bump you in the night,” Richie murmurs. “I move around a lot in my sleep, like, kick and shit. I’ll try not to touch you.”

There’s a pale light that spills through the cracks in the bedroom door. A light from the lounge, maybe, that floods into the hallway, growing fainter and fainter, until it is just a breath of its former self once it reaches Eddie’s gaze.

He focuses on it, as he replies, so very quietly, “it’s okay.” An inhale. The pale light flickers. “I don’t mind if you touch me.”

The silence that follows feels like a tangible thing.

Interrupted by the sound of Richie’s brain whirring, thoughts so heavy they fill the room.

Minutes pass. Richie shifts, just slightly, and pauses. Exhales, just a little louder than usual, and pauses. Thinks, and thinks, and thinks.

Eddie feels a weight on his shoulder.

The blanket makes it hard to feel it, but Eddie knows, immediately, that it's Richie hand. And it’s cautious, it’s tentative. A trembling product of all those moments of hesitation. But Eddie can feel the indent of Richie's fingertips, pressing into the blanket, as though trying to touch him through it. But he can't, and that's the point. It's a way to touch Eddie without actually touching him.

Eddie holds very still as Richie slowly, _slowly,_ trails his fingers down Eddie's side. Down the slight dip of his waist, up the slight curve of his hip. Pushing down with his fingertips so Eddie can really _feel_ it, little pressure points in his hip bone. Eddie bends his legs at the knee, lifts them up a bit toward his stomach, and Richie fingers – slow, so very slow - follow the curve of his ass. He stops his hand, rests it there, and Eddie closes his eyes and focuses on the weight and the fact that Richie's hand is large enough to cup one side completely and he knows there's three layers between Richie's hand and his own bare skin but he swears he can feel the weight of Richie's palm radiating right through to his bones.

Richie lets out a shaky breath, presses down, just a little, and then pulls his hand away.

"I think I'll sleep on the couch."

Eddie's eyes snap open as the mattress shifts and shakes under Richie's hurried movement. He watches the dark figure of Richie scramble off the bed, stumble toward the door, and pull it open.

And all that pale light floods in, shines too bright in Eddie’s eyes, as the figure of Richie disappears completely.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Richie drops Eddie home early the following morning. So Eddie's mother won't have a fit, and because Richie has to get ready for work. Eddie gives him a quick wave and climbs back up through his bedroom window. And wonders whether things between him and Richie were awkward or not.

(They hadn't spoken much as they got up, but that's because they'd been in a rush). (At least, that's what Eddie decides, because he doesn't like the idea of not being on good terms with Richie).

He tears up the note he left for his mother on his bed, checks the flowers Richie gave him (and maybe spends a little too long sitting there smiling fondly at them) and then joins his mother for breakfast downstairs. And she doesn't suspect a thing.

He spends most of the morning watching TV and napping on the couch. Because he doesn't exactly have anything else to do.

Maybe he should think about getting more than two friends.

But that seems tiresome.

"Eddie," his mother says curtly, when he wakes from his nap. Eddie blinks groggily, peeling his cheek from the plastic couch cover. Sweaty and sticky. His mother is sitting in the armchair, knitting. _Knitting?_ When the hell did she learn to knit? "Someone called for you while you were asleep. A girl."

Eddie's stomach sinks.

"She said her name was Violet."

About a hundred thoughts swirl through Eddie's mind. One being hopeful: the thought that Violet called to apologise, to fix things. Another being more cynical: the acknowledgement that Richie knew to lie about who he was when Eddie's mother picked up the phone, and Violet didn't.

"What did she want?" Eddie asks.

"She just said that she would try calling again later," his mother replies. She sets her knitting down on her lap and looks at him imploringly. "Who is she, Eddie?"

"Just a girl from school," Eddie lies. "We're working on a project together."

"You seem to be working on a lot of projects," his mother sniffs, suspicious.

"Yeah, well, it's _school,"_ Eddie retorts. "That's kinda what you do there. Take it up with my teachers if you're that fussed."

His mother's expression is pinched tight, but her reply is cut off by the sound of the phone ringing.

They look at each other.

"That'll be your friend," his mother says stiffly.

Eddie should answer it. He should.

But what the hell will he even say? That forgives her? He doesn't know if he does, just yet. Besides, she'll be calling to apologise over their fight, not the fact that she's been a bad friend this whole time. Will he have to tell her that himself? What if she doesn't feel bad? Because she thinks the way she acted was right? Surely not. Surely she's better than that.

He should answer it.

He should, he should, and he doesn't.

The ringing stops.  

"Well," his mother huffs, plucking up her knitting needles. A smugness to her voice that makes Eddie's skin crawl. "Obviously that project isn't very important, then."

 _Fuck you,_ Eddie snaps in his mind. Levelling his mother with a daggering look he hopes conveys those two very words. "I'm going out for a bit," is what he actually says.

"What? Where?"

"I don't know." He gets to his feet and wipes the sweat from the back of his neck. "And I don't care." Anywhere's better than here. It doesn't feel like a home. Just a place to hang his clothes and rest his head. He has another home. A real one. Surrounded by trees and birds and dirt roads. Hidden away from people like his mother, who would turn her nose up at it. Hidden away from everyone but the people who matter.

"What's going on with you, Eddie?" his mother asks. "You've been acting strange. Is it that girl? Is she your girlfriend? I told you -"

"I really fucking hate it here, ma," Eddie interrupts, with a resigned smile. "I'm going out." 

And he knows that's going to cause a whole lot of damage, but what's another flame to a burning fire?

He leaves.

 

 

 

He goes straight to the supermarket Richie works at. Like an idiot.

Honestly, he's not sure if it's a good idea to see Richie while he's working. In fact, he's not sure whether Richie will even want to see him at all. But he can pretend he's grocery shopping if worse comes to worst. Thinks they're out of bread anyway.

The supermarket feels like one of those places where reality is slightly altered. With dusky lighting and a song Eddie's never heard before playing over the garbled speakers and a handful of people in baggy clothing shuffling around like zombies.

He finds Richie in the toiletries aisle, shelving boxes of toothpaste.

"Spaghetti," Richie greets with a blink, when Eddie approaches him. Wearing pressed black slacks and a collared dark blue t-shirt, a little name tag pinned over his chest. He looks fucking cute in his work uniform.

"Hey."

"What are you doing here?" Richie asks. Then snorts at himself and gestures around him. "Right. Shopping, obviously."

"Actually I'm just here to see you." Eddie blushes, because Richie blushes, and then adds, "Violet's been trying to call me."

"Oh -"

"I was asleep the first time, but I...didn't pick up the second. I don't know if I'm ready to talk to her just yet." Eddie sighs, tugging at the hair falling over his forehead. Richie watches with a hint of confusion and concern, sliding another box of toothpaste onto the shelf. "I don't know. What do you think I should do?"

"Oh." Richie blinks again. "Well, hey, if you're not ready to talk to her, then you don't have to. Talk to her when you're ready."

"Yeah, okay." Eddie could've told himself that, but it does ease the guilt he feels over not answering the phone. 

"I might call her later though," Richie mutters, more to himself than to Eddie. "Just check if she's alright..."

Eddie nods, chewing his bottom lip, caught up in his own thoughts. What is he doing here, really. Did he just need validation? Or is he really this fucking hung up on Richie that he can hardly go a couple hours without seeing him? A combination of both, probably, with a sprinkle of not wanting to be near his mother on top. He sighs inwardly, he really should go and let Richie do his job.

But it's at that moment that his gaze catches on something over Richie's shoulder.

Or, rather, _someone._

"Holy shit," Eddie whispers. "He's fucking everywhere."

"Hm?" Richie glances over his shoulder and Eddie whips a hand up, quick smart, and clutches at Richie's shirt. Tugs him just a bit closer but, more importantly, forces Richie to look back at him before his gaze can linger too long on what's behind him. Because it's fucking _Wade_ , standing there, scouring thoughtfully over shaving creams. Fucking Wade Johnson who turns up at the worst times, in the worst places. Like the universe finds entertainment in making them constantly bump into each other and stumble around in the aftermath.

"Jesus," Richie says. "Does he follow you or something?"

That strikes fear in Eddie's heart, but it's unlikely. After all, this is a small town. The odds of them seeing each other out in public are really not that low. Eddie saw Macie entering the hairdressers on his way over here, and there are a few faces around that he recognises just from the sheer number of times he's passed them on the street.

Eddie presses his side right up against the shelf, and angles Richie's body as a barricade between himself and Wade's line of sight. "Don't let him see me," he mutters. "I don't want to talk to him."

"Yeah, okay." Richie glances back over his shoulder. Wade is studying the back of a can of shaving cream very intently, and appears to not have noticed them at all. "I kinda wanna punch him in the face," Richie mumbles when he looks back at Eddie.

"Don't," Eddie says. "He used to be a footballer, he'd beat the shit out of you."

Richie splutters out a surprised laugh, lifts his fist to his mouth to smother it. Wade, thankfully, is still in his own personal bubble. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"I'm just being honest." Eddie grins. Richie grins back, lifts an eyebrow like ' _is that so?'_ , and Eddie shrugs.

And there they are, Eddie pressing himself so firmly into the shelf it's as though he's trying to disappear into it, Richie straightening his back and lifting his shoulders to make himself even taller, acting as a sturdy, protective wall. Trying very hard not to laugh.

It's the absurdity of the situation that makes Eddie blurt, without much thought, "you know, Wade would always tell me that I had no chance with you."

" _Really?"_ Richie looks between Wade and Eddie thoughtfully. And a contemplative look on Richie's face is never a good a sign. Especially when a smirk follows it. "Well, we should show him how wrong he was."

Eddie should've seen that coming.

(And maybe he did).

Richie leans one arm against the shelf and rests his other hand on Eddie's hip. Ducks his head so Wade can clearly see Eddie if he turns around, and says, loudly, but with affection, "you coming over tonight? I thought we could have dinner together and then cuddle on the couch."

Eddie's entire face burns red, because Richie is still smirking at him like a little shit. An annoyingly _sexy_ little shit. And he can feel Richie's thumb smoothing small circles into his hip. And Wade is fucking _turning around._

"Only if you let me make dinner. Your cooking is terrible," Eddie replies. Which is _so_ not romantic and _so_ not what they're going for here but it doesn't seem to matter. Because, even though he is very pointedly staring at Richie's face - the hook of his lip and glint in his brown eyes - he can see that Wade's bewildered gaze has found them. 

And Richie replies, smoothly, "whatever you want, baby."

And he pulls Eddie closer by his hip, his smirk falling into an expression much softer –something tender and private and just for them.

And presses a gentle kiss to Eddie's forehead.

Well. Yep. That'll definitely do it. Wade will one hundred percent think they're dating now. That's proven him wrong.

It's also caused Eddie's soul to ascend into the fucking spirit realm.

The kiss is lingering, a soft, warm pressure on Eddie's skin. Makes Eddie weak in the knees. Makes his body hot and tingling all over. And the only thing in his head right now is the sound of Richie calling him 'baby' replaying over and over in his head. With a running commentary of, _holy shit holy shit holy shit._

Eddie's eyes flutter open when Richie pulls away (when had he closed them?) and he finds himself staring right at a wide-eyed looking Wade.

Eddie gives him a smug look.

Wade clutches at his can of shaving cream, spins on his heel, and walks out the aisle.

"Did it work?" Richie asks.

"Yeah." Eddie is annoyingly breathless. Richie sees that Wade is gone and drops his hand from Eddie's hip. "We sure fooled him."

Because they're not actually dating. Because Richie doesn't actually call him _baby._ Because they're not allowed to kiss. Not right now.

That high falls very quickly.

"Can I actually come over tonight, though?" Eddie asks anyway. "I really hate being around my mom right now."

"Yeah, 'course, Spaghetti," Richie replies, and he goes back to shelving toothpaste, and it's like that didn't even happen. "You're always welcome."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Eddie rides over after dinner, when the sun’s already set.

Richie is showered and changed and looks like he’s woken up from a nap. And they find some snacks and settle onto the couch and Richie tells Eddie about his day at work and they find a cheesy TV movie and kick their feet up on the coffee table. And it’s like those weekends they used to spend together as friends. Only now they have their thighs pressed together and the touch makes Eddie’s throat feel tight because he can’t stop thinking of how they acted together in the store. Richie had called him _baby._

Jesus, it’s so unfair that in Wade’s head, Richie is Eddie’s boyfriend, and reality, Richie is _not._

Fucking Wade.

Eddie imagines what it’d be like right now if he and Richie were actually dating. Richie’s arm would probably be around him. Eddie might even be on Richie’s lap, with his arms locked around Richie’s neck, only half-watching the TV, because he’s too busy laughing at the ticklish feeling of Richie kissing his jaw.

Richie would dig his hand into their bowl of M&M’s and pick out all the red ones for Eddie, and Eddie would playfully feed Richie the rest, and they’d kiss each other and taste like chocolate.

Maybe Eddie’s playfulness would turn to teasing, and he’d wriggle around on Richie’s lap, wrap one of Richie’s curls around his finger. And Richie would grin and still him with his hands and say _“not right now, baby”_. But then give in only moments later.

Maybe Eddie should stop thinking about this, because it’s kind of depressing.

He frowns at the TV, the image blurred and incomprehensible in his vision. Focuses on the warmth of Richie’s leg beside his own. And those thoughts dare him enough to slowly lean sideways and rest his head on Richie’s shoulder. Testing the waters.

Richie stiffens, pats his Eddie’s knee, and lifts himself up from the couch.

“I’m gonna get more snacks,” he declares, casual. But when he sits back down, he leaves a gap between them.

And it’s just like last night. Trying not to get too close.

“Can I sleep over again?” Eddie asks.

Richie snorts. “Eddie, of course you can. You really don’t have to ask.”

But Eddie really needs the concrete answer, when all he feels in the air between them is uncertainty.

 

 

They finish the movie. Richie forgets to call Violet.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Eddie showers a couple hours later, because he never actually had time to shower today, and he’s still oddly sweaty from his nap all those hours ago.

And he _should_ spend that time clearing his head, sorting out his thoughts. But instead he just thinks of how pretty Richie had looked under the stars last night, and how soft his lips had been on his forehead at the store, and he smells every bottle of shampoo and body wash that has _For Men_ written across it because they all smell like Richie.

It’s a sad and lonely shower.

 

Steam curls around his feet when he leaves the bathroom, pads down the hall to Richie's room in a towel, where he knows Richie has laid out the same shorts and shirt as last night for him to wear. Only, he pauses right outside Richie's door. Because Richie is at the end of the hall, staring at him. 

He looks flustered, like he had been been passing by on his way to the kitchen and had spotted Eddie by accident. But he doesn't look away. And Eddie is hyper-aware that he's half naked, water droplets clinging to his skin, but he doesn't feel embarrassed. The heat that burns his body is of something else.

"Um." Richie sounds...wrecked. Clears his throat and scratches the back of his neck. Beet red. "Sorry. I...um. I left those clothes on the bed for you." 

"Thanks," Eddie says, voice just as scratchy.

Richie nods, gaze raking down Eddie's torso, before he realises what he's doing, and quickly looks away. "Yeah. Um. Night, Eddie."

"Night." 

Richie disappears - Eddie sees him yank fistfuls of hair from the crown of his head before he leaves. And Eddie slips into Richie's room and changes. Slides under the covers, feels fresh, with his clean skin brushing against the soft sheets, feels safe, with the smell of Richie everywhere. 

And he can't sleep.

Twists and turns on Richie's bed. It feels far too big, too much empty space around him. Stretches out and smooths a hand over where Richie had been resting last night. Curls up on his side and buries one side of his face deeply into Richie's pillow.

His body still burns. 

He wants Richie. Like an ache.

And he can't have him.

Sometimes doing right by your friends and being a good person really fucking sucks.

Every now and then, he will find himself looking at a certain spot on the wall, outlining the shapes of deep purple flowers, and he will look away, heart heavy. Everything is cold and quiet.

He wonders if Richie is having the same predicament. If, perhaps, Richie is yearning for him in the same all-consuming way. If it’s keeping him up.

The sound of footsteps out in the lounge-room is his answer.

Eddie holds his breath and listens. The footsteps stop, but he can still hear the faint sounds of movement. At one point, he thinks he hear Richie sigh deeply. A tired, sombre sigh.

Eddie really wants to go out there.

It's probably a terrible idea. You know, considering their little scene out in the hallway. Considering _everything._ Eddie should probably give Richie some space. Talk in the morning. Do what normal people do.

But nothing about this situation is normal. So Eddie climbs out of bed.

He follows the pale light down the hallway, bare feet quiet on the cold floorboards. Stops when he reaches the front room. Richie is standing by the kitchen island, his palms flat on the counter top, head ducked, his taut back facing Eddie.

Eddie crosses over lightly, Richie not noticing his presence until Eddie has carefully jumped up onto the island, sitting down on the counter top an arm’s length away. But all Richie does in acknowledgement is raise his shoulders a bit higher, bend his fingers at the knuckle and presses his fingertips hard into the granite surface, turn his head away.

Eddie folds his hands in his lap and studies the side of Richie's face. "Richie?"

"I could really go for a cigarette right now," Richie says, without lifting his head, huffs something like a laugh. "Some weed or some shit. This stress is killing me."

His hands shake, no matter how hard he tries to press them against the counter. Eddie immediately regrets coming out here, because obviously _he_ is one of the things Richie is stressed about.

"Should I leave?" Eddie asks.

Now, Richie looks at him. And his mouth forms a straight line and his eyes scour over Eddie's face and the pushes down against the counter so firmly that veins protrude from his wrists and curl like vines up his forearms.

He pushes away from the counter, and approaches Eddie slowly. Doesn't stop until he right in front of Eddie's bare knees. Eddie's mouth goes dry. Richie looks so weary and worried, so dark and depleted in this shadowy light. With the fabric of his shirt scratching against the skin of Eddie's leg, with his body heat flowing heavy between them. He looks so breathtakingly and beautiful and Eddie is drawn to him in every sense.

"Stay," Richie says quietly. "You're always so good at fixing me."

They look at each other. And suddenly it is seven months ago, and Richie's heart is broken, and Eddie tries everything he can to be a source of comfort. And they lift their arms at the same time, and Eddie's arms go around Richie's shoulders, and Richie's arms wrap around his waist.

It is instinctive, for Eddie to open his legs so Richie can get closer, for Richie to encircle his arms completely around Eddie's waist, so their fronts are completely flushed together. Need to encompass each other completely, to touch, touch, _touch._ Eddie squeezes his thighs on either side of Richie's hips, to keep him in place. The shoulder of Eddie's too-big shirt slips, so when Richie buries his face there, it is into bare skin. And the feeling blossoms right up Eddie's neck, and down directly into his heart.

"I don't fix you," Eddie says, tangling his fingers in the curls on Richie's nape. "We just...take care of each other, you know? Me and you."

"Yeah," Richie murmurs, warm breath fanning over Eddie's skin. Makes Eddie shiver. "But...you also stress me out. I mean..." At the same time, Richie noses the spot where Eddie's neck and shoulder meet, and unwraps one arm from around Eddie's waist to place it on Eddie's thigh. Two places that are so sensitive, so untouched, that Eddie's breath catches sharply in his throat. "I can't keep my hands off you."

Eddie's eyes flutter closed. And he focuses on the sensations. Richie's hand: long, nimble fingers, warm, rough palm, grazing up his thigh, hot and daring, his thumb sliding beneath the hem of Eddie's shorts. Only just, before it stops, and rubs small circles into Eddie's soft skin.

"Then don't," Eddie whispers. Richie's mouth ghosts over his shoulder and Eddie tilts his head to the side to give him more access without thinking. And Richie brushes his lips along that sensitive spot between his shoulder and neck, leaves Eddie breathless as he says, "Then keep your hands on me."

And after two nights of Richie avoiding getting too close, after weeks of them not being allowed to touch each other, Richie does just that.

He noses his way up Eddie's neck, presses a gentle kiss to his pulse point (Eddie wonders if he can feel the way his heart hammers), and then his face is only a breath away. His eyes, hooded and dark, fixed on Eddie's lips.

"It's okay," Eddie whispers, sensing a hint of hesitation. He cups Richie's face delicately, Richie's eyelids flutter. "We did everything we said we would. We don't have to wait anymore."

And if Richie says no, then Eddie respects him. If he pulls away, then Eddie will let him go. But Richie kisses him. A desperate, hungry kind of kiss, with all the passion and urgency of someone who has craved this for a very long time.

Eddie knots his fingers in Richie's hair. Richie digs his fingers into Eddie's thigh and hooks it around his waist. And _oohhh, fuck._ That want, that need for _more_ still boils low in Eddie's stomach, that _ache_ to be _touched_ , but this time....Eddie can satisfy it completely. Because there's nothing stopping him. The waiting is over. So he wraps his other leg around Richie, and he kisses and kisses and _kisses_ him. Sucks on Richie's bottom lip and licks into Richie's mouth and peppers little kisses down along his jaw.

It's eager and heated and messy. It's the two of them panting into each other's mouths and Richie nipping Eddie's ear and Eddie scratching down the back of Richie's shirt and their hearts on fire. It's more, more, _more._

Eddie says, without an ounce of subtly, "this counter is really hard. We should go somewhere more comfortable."

And Richie just picks him up. Hands burning on Eddie's bare skin. Not an inch of space between them. And carries him down the hall.

"It's so hot that you can pick me up like this," Eddie breathes.

"Yeah? _"_ Richie rasps, kisses Eddie's jaw. He huffs a laugh suddenly, remembering yesterday. "It's not because I'm muscular, though. You just weigh nothing."

Eddie pulls away, looks at Richie's kissed-red lips, eyes dark and pupils blown. ( _fuck, fuck, fuck)_ and runs a hand down Richie's arm. "So you're telling me you're _not_ all strong and rugged?" he asks, teasing. "Mr 'Han Solo'?"

Richie buries his face in Eddie's neck, and Eddie can feel his smile pressed there. "Dammit."

 

It's worth the wait.

 

Eddie, on his back on Richie's bed, Richie crowding over him, sucking bruises into Eddie's throat. Eddie tugging on Richie's shirt sleeve, whispering _"off"_ and Richie yanking it over his head, letting Eddie's finger roam over his pale skin.

 

It's worth the longing glances and short-lived touches.

 

"Can I?" Richie whispers, nodding at Eddie's shirt. Eddie sits up, nods. And Richie slips his hands under the hem and holds Eddie's waist. Taking his time to slide his hands up Eddie's sides, gaze transfixed to the skin it reveals as the shirt bunches up. And Eddie's breath catches at the feeling, ticklish, almost, but searing. Doesn't even get a moment to feel embarrassed, insecure, before Richie is carefully pulling the shirt off and kissing Eddie's chest.

"You’re really beautiful," Richie mumbles, shy. 

And when Eddie kisses him, and Richie lays back on top of him, their bare chests touch, and the sensation of skin on skin makes Eddie want to explode. And he wonders if something so seemingly simple really feels that _good,_ or if his deprived body just amplifies every touch until every hair on his body is standing on end.

But Richie seems to be enjoying this just as much he is, because he clutches at Eddie's hip and rocks their crotches together.

 _"Ooohhh."_ That was good. That was fucking _good._ Eddie bucks his hips up, and does it again.

"Eddie," Richie mumbles into his jaw. Eddie rolls his hips again. Again. He's not really thinking. Just driven by the heat in his stomach and how fucking _incredible_ it feels. "Eddie." Richie holds Eddie's hip still. "Do you....do you wanna do this? I mean... do you want this as much as I do?"

Eddie blinks, Richie's face shadowed and hazy in his vision. He feels dizzy, can only focus on how tight Richie's grip is on his hip, (god Richie's hands are so big why is that so fucking _hot)_ and how nice Richie's other hand feels on his thigh (Richie seems to have a thing for touching them and, god, that's even _hotter)._ And his delirious state is only a recipe for disaster because he blurts, "You mean, do I want you to fuck me?"

Richie turns bright red. "Um. Y-yeah."

Eddie realises his bluntness and kind of wants to sink through the bed and suffocate in the mattress. But also...he _does_ want Richie to, you know. "I'd...I'd like that, uh - I do want it as much as you."

"Okay." Richie looks awkward, ugh, how did Eddie manage to make this awkward it was going so _well._ "Okay, yeah. Shit. I...fuck, I really want this just...wait there."

Nerves begin to replace all the mind-fogging lust. Staring up at the ceiling, Eddie is caught between thoughts of _holy shit is this fucking happening?_ and _holy shit this is finally happening!_ Unable to control the frantic beat of his heart. But when Richie climbs back onto the bed, he admits he's nervous too. Looking vulnerable and unsure. So they take it slow. And it's a bit awkward, and uncomfortable, but it's still worth _everything._ Especially when Richie is finally sinking into him, and his eyes are closed and he's biting down hard on his bottom lip, but a low groan escapes him anyway. And it burns a little for Eddie, not exactly in a good way, when Richie starts to move, kisses Eddie, pants into his mouth and then buries his face into Eddie's neck.

"Fuck," he moans into Eddie's skin. "Fuck, Eddie, you're so fucking _tight_ , holy shit. Feels so good.

And then nothing else seems to matter - Richie nips at Eddie's neck and runs his hands up Eddie's sides, caresses him, rambles breathless, senselessly, as he rocks into him: _"wanted this for so long, wanted you..."_ Because Eddie's making Richie feel _good_. Because Eddie is wanted, _desired_. Because this is _more._ The two of them, melting into each other, touching everywhere, connected in more ways than one. No pain can stop the way Eddie's stomach flutters at that. And when Richie thrusts deeper, moves faster, hits _something_ that ignites all Eddie's nerve endings at once, all the pain subsides anyway.

“Feel good, baby?” Richie whispers.

Eddie’s not quite sure how to tell him that this is the best he’s ever felt.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"I can't believe I'm not dreaming right now."

Richie's words drift through the hazy air around them. Stretched out on his back, sheets snaked around his starfished legs. Eddie is tucked into his side, hand on Richie's chest. They've cleaned themselves up. Lazily thrown their clothes back on. And it's kind of like the aftermath of a blizzard. Like they have powered through something intense and incredibly built-up. A storm. And now, snowflakes gently fall.

Eddie can feel Richie's heartbeat beneath his cheek. "Do you dream about me?" he whispers, sleepily. Everything soft and soothing and subdued.

"All the time." Richie runs his fingers up and down Eddie's arm, but he referring to moments before, when they moved as one, when he says, "I've dreamt about this."

Eddie's dreamt about it too, will probably never stop dreaming about it, but he can't himself as he grins, teases, "Was it as good as in your dreams?"

Richie rolls onto his side, wraps both his arms tight around Eddie, and presses their foreheads together. "You're better than a dream."

It's cheesy and sappy and Richie kisses him and it's perfect.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Eddie's not sure how long he's been asleep for when he wakes, but it doesn't feel like more than a couple hours.

He's tucked right up into Richie's side, held there by one of Richie's arm around him. Richie's other hand is carding gently through Eddie's hair and every now and then he will stop the movement, squeeze Eddie against him, and press a kiss into Eddie's curls.

( _Oh,_ Eddie thinks, and his heart almost bursts inside him, _this is what it feels like to be loved)._

He doesn't stop to consider why, exactly Richie is awake. In fact, he is almost lulled back to sleep. That is, until he hears movement coming from the kitchen.

It is undeniably a person: the sound of cupboards opening and closing, padding footsteps. And, since Eddie and Richie are right here, and only one other person can get in without knocking, it is undeniably...

"Violet," Richie whispers, by explanation, noticing that Eddie's awake. "She got here about half an hour ago."

Eddie's stomach sinks. A cupboard in the kitchen shuts a little too loudly.

"What is she doing?" Eddie asks. Richie's eyes are little glints of light when Eddie looks up at him. A fond sort of look smoothing over Richie's expression, Richie kisses the corner of Eddie's eye.

"She's just been rummaging around in the kitchen. Getting some food, I guess. Don't worry about it." He kisses Eddie's forehead. "Go back to slee-"

The sound of glass shuttering erupts into the quiet.

_"Fuck!"_

Eddie and Richie bolt upright at the harsh sound of Violet's voice. Only spare a moment to give each other startled looks before they're scrambling out of bed and hurrying out into the kitchen.

The light's on, Eddie blinks at the sudden shift into brightness as he wavers just behind Richie's shoulder. Violet's crouched up on the counter, packets and bottles and cans of food pulled out of the cupboards and strewn around her. In one hand, she holds a bottle of alcohol, open and tipped towards her mouth. The other hand she has bent at the elbow, blood seeping from a cut in her palm. An emotion crosses over her face when she sees the two of them - especially Eddie - quivers in her jaw and tugs at the corner of her mouth. It is only fleeting, squashed down and swallowed away, her lips forming a tight line. But Eddie sees it.

"What the fuck." It's all Richie can say. Eddie's surprised he can say anything at all, because he himself is drawing up a complete blank.

Violet fixes them both with a withering look, tilting back to set her backside on the counter, legs hanging over the edge. "It's nothing," she mumbles, and takes another swig from the bottle, wincing at the taste. "Sorry for waking you. Just dropped a glass and cut myself."

Richie and Violet have been completely adverse to alcohol ever since their mother's death, so it's a shock to see her drinking it now. It's also a shock to see her with her hand all bloodied. A shock to see her here at all (especially right now, while Eddie's covered in Richie-made hickeys).

"Why are you...where did you even get that from? I thought we threw all of mom's alcohol away," Richie says.

Violet laughs without much humour. "Yeah, well, obviously not all of it." Waves the bottle in the air. "Missed one."

Her gaze keeps landing on Eddie. A heavy but blank stare. Eddie doesn't know what it means. He wants to cover himself up, skin tingling everywhere Richie had marked him. But mostly he wants to close his eyes and let the image of her vanish completely. Because she is a stranger, sitting up there. Something cracked and frayed at the edges. And it frightens him.

She throws her head back with her lips around the bottle.

"Stop, Vi," Richie says firmly. Eddie can see his muscles tighten underneath his shirt as he clenches his fists by his sides. "Stop drinking that shit. What are you doing?"

"I wanted to see what all the fuss was about." Violet shrugs. "I mean, mom seemed to love it so..."

Her words suck all the air out of the room.

"Violet." Richie's voice breaks.

Violet's eyes burn holes through the bottle, suddenly can't look at either of them. "I thought maybe it would help."

Neither Richie nor Eddie say anything. Neither have any idea of _what_ to say. The scene doesn't seem real. In the faded amber light that doesn't reach the shadowy edges of the room, washing over the chaos of the little quaint kitchen, over the stony look on Violet's face, as she stares down deep into the swirling contents of the bottle. The air feels thick and heavy, weighing down on Eddie's shoulders, makes it difficult to breathe.

It's hard to believe that just a few minutes ago, Eddie had been curled up peacefully in Richie's arms. The drastic change in atmosphere gives him whiplash. But as he looks at Violet now, appearing so strangely small as she sits up on that counter, he doesn't resent her. His heart is burdened with pity.

That quivering emotion flitters back along Violet's features, the longer they stand there in silence.   She swallows thickly, eyelids fluttering and jaw clenching, as though pleading with her body _'no, please don't_ '. But it doesn't listen. And she sniffs loudly, pressing the joint of her wrist up to her nose with her uninjured hand, and squeezes her eyelids shut. "Fuck."

And she begins to cry.

The kind of free-falling tears that slip from her eyes and roll down her cheeks no matter how hard she tries to stop them. Tilts her head back and blinks rapidly. "Fuck...I don't know..." She wipes tears away with her wounded hand, and smears blood all over her cheek. "I don't know what I'm doing. Just...go back to bed, okay?"

"We're not going anywhere," Richie murmurs and he takes a step forward, cautious, like approaching a wild animal.

"Stop!" Violet cries, jerking upright. Freezing Richie mid-step. "Th-there's broken glass on the floor." Richie keeps moving anyway, because he's impulsive and stupid and the kind of person who thinks he's skilled enough to avoid hundred of tiny glass shards on the floor. " _Stop_ , Richie!" Words loud enough scratch Violet's throat. She sobs harder, in frustration - her attempts at keeping herself together falling apart. " _Please!_ Stop! _You're going to hurt yourself!"_

Eddie lunges out and snags the back of Richie's shirt. "Richie..."

"Okay, okay." Richie holds his hands up in surrender. Then he looks over at Eddie, offers him a reassuring smile, and carefully pries Eddie's hand from his shirt. Gives it a squeeze, held up near his chest, before he lets it go.

Violet watches in ruin. Mouth cut into an open mouthed frown, blood staining her jaw. She presses the heels of her palms to her eyes. "What's wrong with me?" she wails. "Something's fucking wrong with me."

"Nothing's wrong -"

"I just want someone to give a shit," Violet continues, hiccups, voice wet. "I just want someone to give a shit about me. And no one does. My friends don't even like me. I tried...I tried so _hard_...but they don't care. I don't know what to do," she sobs. "I feel so alone. All the _time_."

Oh. _Oh._ Eddie's blood runs cold. He thinks, maybe, for a moment, that he might cry too. Violet was a friend, was a home, but she wasn't a great one. Wasn't a healthy one. And Eddie realises that now. But he knew about Violet's friends having obvious preferences over Violet, and he never even...asked how she felt. And he sees that he had faults too.

"Violet -"

"I'm sorry," she blubbers. "I'm sorry. I'm glad you're happy together. I shouldn't have been angry."

"Jesus, Violet, wait," Richie says with finality. He rakes his fingers through his hair. "Shit. This is all my fault. I shouldn't have ever taken your friends. I was lonely and jealous and stupid. And, fuck, I'm so fucking sorry. I'm so, so sorry for doing that to you. You have every right to be angry at me."

He looks at her desperately, and Violet looks right back.

"But I only made it worse," she says. "I ruined things between us, between me and Eddie. I fucked everything up." Her devastation begins to melt away, bleeds into a sentimental sort of sadness.

"But we can fix it -"

"We tried, didn't we? You already apologised and everything." Frustration tugs at a vein in her neck and she wipes her blood from her hand on her jeans. "It's not going to work. I just _ruin_ things and -" she breaks off, takes a deep breath. "I already decided," she says. "I think it's best if I leave."

"What?" Eddie and Richie reply simultaneously. "What do you mean?" Richie adds.

"I'm going to move in with Aunt Sara."

"Wait, n-no, Vi, you can't just _leave,"_ Richie stammers. "You...We're gonna fix this, okay? We'll sort everything out. First, we... should really bandage up your hand. And we'll... just talk it out. Talking helps. Like, well, you kinda already figured it out, but you should know that Eddie and I are, like, dating now. Also, all those barbie dolls would go missing when we were kids because I threw them through the roof of that old farmhouse out in the fields."

"And I give a shit about you," Eddie says, speaking properly for the first time. Violet's puffy eyes flicker to him, that dark storm lightening to a pale shade of grey.

"Yeah - shit, me too," Richie says hurriedly.

A small smile flitters across Violet's face. She sways a little as she places the bottle of alcohol onto the counter by her thigh, but she makes no attempt to climb down. She feels so far away. "I'll come and visit very weekend."

 _No._ It's not the response either of them want. But Violet seems set in stone.

“Come on, Vi…” Richie tries helplessly.

“I talked it over with Aunt Sara,” Violet says. “She thinks it’s a good idea.”

Richie and Eddie just gape at her. Feel hopeless. Useless.

"So you really just wanna...leave?" Richie asks.

"I've been considering it for a while,” Violet admits. “And…and it's not just because of this. I don't like being in the house anymore." Her voice goes quiet. "Not without mom."

Richie sighs, shoulders sagging, and there's really no arguing with that. It makes sense. Violet is up at her aunt's every weekend anyway, has been avoiding the house as often as she can. But it's going to be different without her here. Feel so empty. And all at once Eddie is choked by it.

 _No...no wait, this can't happen._ What will happen to Violet's room? Where he has spent so many days? Where the two of them have laughed over nothing, where she stitched a little rainbow patch into his jacket, and beamed proudly as he pulled it on. Where they would stay up until the moon grew tired, whispering to each other in the quiet. It will become bare, a room of nothing. Eddie will open the front door and won't see Violet waiting for him on the couch. Or be drawn to the kitchen by the scent of her baking cookies. Won't hear her banging on Richie's door to tell him to turn his music down. Won't sip coffee with her out the back on sleepy summer mornings.

It will be a different house without Violet. A house he doesn't know. And Eddie feels frantic. Like he could've stopped this. If he had just been honest about his feelings for Richie from the start....if he had comforted her when her friends made her feel lonely....if he had answered that phone...

But, ever since her mother died, Violet has been walking into a house she doesn't know every day.

"And Richie?" Violet whispers.

Richie wipes his eyes. He's been crying. Eddie feels his own eyes sting, and realises he's crying too. "Yeah?"

"I think I'm going to pass out."

And then Violet holds up her hand. Where the cut is much deeper than it looks.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Here's how that night ends.

With Eddie once again in Richie's arms.

But it's different this time, because they're on the couch. And also, because they've spent the past hour hovering over Violet, who had sat where they sit now. Eddie had thoroughly cleaned and bandaged up her hand while Richie had paced and rambled. _"Should I take you to the hospital? Should we call an ambulance? How are you feeling, Vi, are you gonna pass out? How much alcohol did you drink? Do you think your head feels weird because of all the blood you lost?"_

It feels like the day Eddie sprained his ankle. But that had been so, so long ago. They had been three separate people then. Now, they are all tangled and knotted up each other's lives. Three tightly wound strings. In that moment, as Violet watches him patch her up, Eddie thinks that one string is slowly beginning to slip loose. In the upcoming months, _years,_ he will learn, if you pull one string, the knot will only strengthen. Until it is impossible for your fingers to pick them apart.

"I think the weird feeling in my head is just from the drink," Violet says. "Not the cut. It was strong stuff."

"Jesus, you could accidentally cut a finger off and none of us would be sure if you really hurt yourself," Richie says, throwing his hands in the air. "You really don't react to pain. Remember when fell out of that tree?"

"I think her hand's gonna be okay," Eddie says.

"Okay." Richie points at Eddie. "Him I trust."

Violet showers after that. And Richie and Eddie clean up the kitchen to the sound of water hitting the tiled bathroom floor. Sweep up the glass, pack everything back into the cupboards. Richie tips the rest of the alcohol drink down the drain. Then he sets the bottle down, pulls Eddie toward him, and wraps him up in a hug.

"Somehow this was the best and worst night of my life," he mumbles into Eddie's hair.

It's weird being close like this with Violet in the house, but they can do this now. They'll be able to do this whenever they want. Eddie tilts his head up and kisses him.

"We can make another best night," he whispers into Richie's mouth. He feels Richie's lip begin to curve into a smile, and lets his own mouth copy the movement. "We can make a hundred of them."

Richie tightens his arms around him. "I like the sound of that."

And now they're on the couch, still waiting for Violet to come back out. Richie's arm is stretched out along the back of the couch behind Eddie, and Eddie's tucked in under his armpit. Listening to the sound of Richie snoring. Because he fell asleep ten minutes ago.

He looks peaceful in his sleep. The lines and wrinkles from the stress of the night smoothed out. His long, dark lashes tickling his cheekbones, lips slightly parted. Eddie curls his legs beneath himself and watches him. Until he feels the sort of peace that is smoothed over Richie's face. And that is how Violet finds him, when she pads back into the lounge-room - hair damp and pyjamas tugged over her lean frame - tied up with Richie like two strings.

"Hey," Violet whispers. She sits down on Richie's other side.

"Hey."

Violet is undoubtedly beautiful. Her and Richie, with their similar features, their dark hair and sure, confident smiles. But Eddie no longer looks at her with rose coloured glasses, and it seems ridiculous now, the way he once looked at her like she was something ethereal, above this world. Because she is also undoubtedly human. A normal teenage girl who lets her hair air dry and wears an old shirt to bed and wrinkles her nose at the taste of strong alcohol.

"I'm sorry," Violet says. The rise and fall of Richie's chest between them as they gaze each other. "About everything I said during that stupid fight, about getting mad, about being a shitty friend."

"I was a shitty friend too," Eddie says.

One corner of Violet's mouth quirks. "I just didn't want to lose you, you know? And I think I become a little overly possessive. Like I didn't want to share you. But obviously you can like Richie _and_ me. You can like more than one person at a time. Like... _duh."_

Eddie laughs and she grins softly, reaches over Richie and pokes Eddie's knee fondly. "Plus I, well, I realise now that our whole friendship was kind of revolved around me. I guess I just thought if you enjoyed all the things I did, then there was a higher chance of you wanting to stay with me. But that's ridiculous I mean..." she raises an eyebrow. "Do you even _like_ fashion?"

"I do now," Eddie replies. And now it's Violet turn to laugh. Loud enough to make Richie stir. And Eddie and Violet share wide-eyed looks, biting back their laughter, waiting to see if Richie will wake. But he only sniffs, lets his head loll toward Eddie.

Violet's smile softens. "He really likes you," she says. "Always has. Though, I just assumed it was in a friend way. He used to ask about you all the time when we first become friends. Always wanted to know when you were coming over next."

Eddie feels warm at the thought. And if Violet weren't watching him right now, he'd kiss Richie all over his cute face.

"I'm gonna miss you when I'm gone," Violet says. "But I'm kinda excited to start new, you know? There's a high school right near my aunt's house that's really nice, and then we'll go off to college...but I really will visit as much as I can. I just think...we should start new too." She looks a little nervous. "Like, we should just put everything behind us and start fresh. Start over."

"Yeah," Eddie replies. "I think so too."

Violet smiles, and it's small and messy, something that's not practised, but instead comes naturally.

She sticks out her hand.

"Well, then, Eddie Kaspbrak," she says. "From now on, we're starting over. Saying goodbye to our old friendship, and hello to the new."

And suddenly, Eddie is back in his classroom at school. And it's his second day and he's nervous; he's tired of being gawked at and whispered about and treated like an object. But then he meets a girl who takes a genuine interest in him. Who treats him like a person.

And, much like now, she holds her hand out to him, ready to shake on a promise. A promise of friendship. Of Eddie and Violet. Of their lives changing from then onward.

Eddie takes her hand and shakes it.


End file.
